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tri-weekly PUBLICATIOI^ OF THE BEST CURRENTI' h STAN'DARD LlTlimURE 



Vol. l‘J. No. 64s. Sept. 11, 1S85. Anr.ii;il Subscription, $ If^.OO. 


MELLICHAMPE 

A LEGEND OF THE SANTEE 


I?Y 

WM. GILMORE SIMMS 

Author of “THE PARTISAN,” “THE SCOUT,” 
“GUY RIYERS,” &c. 


Entered »t the Post Office, N. Y , ns second-class nr ‘‘"r. 
Copyriglit, l5S4, by John \V. Lovkll Co. 





N L W* Y O K K ^ 1 

+ fOHN-W - Lovell- conPANY + 

ri6 vesey street 



S75 Science at Home 20 

376 Grandfather’s Chair 20 

377 Life of Defoe 10 

378 Homeward Bound 20 

370 The Charmed Sea 15 

3^ Life of Locke 10 

381 A Fair Device 20 

382 Thaddeusof Warsaw.... 20 

Life of Gibbon 1C 

384 Dorothy Forster 20 

38) Swiss Family Robinson. . 20 
386 Childhood of the World. . 10 
887 Princess Napraxine 25 

385 Life m the Wilds 15 

380 Paradise Lost 20 

890 The Land Question 10 

391 Homer’s Odyssey 20 

392 Life of Milton 10 

393 Social Problems 20 

391 The Giant’s Robe 20 

395 Sowers not Reapers 15 

896 Homer’s Iliad 30 

397 Arabian Nischts’ Enter- 

tainments 25 

398 Life of Pope 10 

899 John Holdsworth 20 

400 Glen of the Echoes 15 

401 Life of Johnson 10 

402 How he Reached the 

White House 25 

403 Poems, by E. A. Poe 20 

404 Life of Southey 10 

405 Life of J. G. Blaine 20 

406 Pole on Whist 15 

407 Life of Burke 10 

408 The Briertield Tragedy.. 20 

409 Adrift with a Vengeance 25 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

411 Children of the Abbey. . . 80 

412 Poems, by Swinburne.... 20 

413 Life of Chaucer 10 

414 Over the Summer Sea... 20 

415 A Perilous Secret 20 

416 Lalla Rookh, by Moore. . 20 

417 Don Quixote 30 

418 “ I Say No,” by Collins. . 20 

419 Ander.sen’s Fairy Tales. . 20 

420 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

421 Aurora Leifrh 20 

422 Cavendish Card Essays. . 15 

423 Rejiented at Leisure. .... 20 

424 Life of Cowper, Smith. . . 10 

425 Self-Help, by Smiles 25 

426 Narrative of A. Gordon 

Pym 15 

427 Life of Grover Cleveland 20 

428 Robinson Crusoe 25 

429 Called Back, by Conway. 15 

430 Bums’ Poems 20 

431 Life of Spenser 10 

432 The Gold Bug, by Poe.. . 15 

433 Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 

434 Typhaines Abbey 25 

435 Miss Tommy, by Mulock, 15 

4.36 The Light of Asia 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle Ap- 

prentices 15 

438 The Assignation 15 

439 Noctes Ambrosianse 30 

440 History of the Mormons. 15 

441 Home as Found 20 

442 Tame's English Litera- 

ture 40 

443 Bryant’s Poems 20 

444 An Ishmaelite 20 

445 The Rival Doctors 20 

446 Tennyson’s Poems 40 

447 The Murder in the Rue 

Morgue and Other Tales 15 

448 Life of Fredrika Bremer. 20 

449 Quisisana 20 

450 Whittier’s Poems 20 

451 Doris, by The Duchess. . 20 

452 Mystic London 20 


453 Black Poodle 20 

454 The Golden Dog 40 

455 Pearls of the Faith 15 

456 Judith Shakespeare 20 

4.57 Pope’s Poems 30 

458 Sunshine and Roses 20 

459 John Bull and His Daugh- 

ters, by Max O Hell .... 20 

460 Galaski, by Bayne 20 

461 Socialism 10 

462 Dark Days 15 

463 Deerslayer, by Cooper... 30 

464 Two Years Before the 

Mast, by R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

465 Earl's Atonement 20 

466 Underthe Will, by Hay . 10 

467 Prairie, by Cooper 20 

468 The Count of Talavera. . 20 

469 Chase, by Lermina 20 

470 Vic, by A. Benrimo 15 

471 Pioneer, by Cooper 25 

472 Indian Song of Songs. . . . 10 

473 Christmas Stories 20 

474 A Woman’s Temptation. 20 

475 Sheep in Wolf s Clothing. 20 

476 Love Works Wonders.... 20 

477 A Week in Killarney 10 

478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

479 Mrs. Browning’s Poems. 35 

480 Alice’s Adventures 20 

481 Through the Looking- 

Glass, by Lewis Carroll 20 

482 Longfellow’s Poems 20 

483 The Child Hunters 15 

4^ The Two Admirals 20 

485 My Roses, by French ... 20 

486 History of the French 

Revolution. Vol. I.... 25 

486 History of the French 

Revolution. Vol. II... 25 

487 Moore’s Poems 40 

488 Water Witch 20 

489 Bride of Lammermoor. . . 20 

490 Black Dwarf 10 

491 Red Rover 20 

492 Castle Dangerous 15 

493 Legend of Montrose 15 

494 Past and Present 20 

495 Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

496 Woman’s Trials 20 

497 Sesame a nd Lilies 10 

498 Dryden’s Poems 30 

499 Heart of Mid-lothian 80 

500 Diamond Necklace 15 

501 The Pilot, by Cooper,,.. 20 

502 Waverley, by Scott 20 

503 Chartism, by Carlyle.... 20 

504 Fortunes of Nigel 20 

505 Crown of Wild Olives.... 10 

506 Wing_and Wing 20 

507 The Two Wives 15 

508 Sartor Re sartus 20 

509 Peveril of the Peak 30 

510 Ethics of the Dust 10 

511 Hood’s Poems 30 

512 Wyandotte, by Cooper. . . 20 

513 Men, Women, and Lovers 20 

514 Early Kings of Norway.. 20 

515 The Pirate, by Scott 30 

516 Queen of the Air 10 

517 Heidenmaiier, by Cooper 20 

518 Married Life by Arthur. 20 

519 Headsman, by Cooper. . . 20 

520 Jean Paul Fred. Richter, 10 

521 Seven Lamps of Archi- 

t’Pf'tnrp 9n 

522 Carlyle’s Goethe, etc 10 

5*23 Coleridge’s Poems. 30 

521 Bravo, by Cooper 20 

525 Life of Heyne 15 

526 Campbell’s Poems 20 

527 Lionel Lincoln 20 

528 Voltaire and Novelis 15 

529 Wei)t of VVish-tou-Wish. 80 


530 In Durance Vile 10 

531 Keats’s Poems 25 

532 Afloat and Ashore 25 

533 Principles and Fallacies 

of Socialism 15 

534 Papa’s Own Girl 30 

535 Studies in Civil Service. . 15 

586 Scott’s Poems 40 

537 Lectures on Architecture 

and Painting, Ruskin.. 15 

538 The Ways of Providence, 15 

539 Miles Wallingford 20 


541 Heroes, & Hero-Worship 20 

542 Stones of Venice, by Rus- 

kin, 3 Vols,, each 25 

543 The Monikins, by Cooper 20 

544 Redgauntlet, by Scott... 25 

545 Home Scenes, by Arthur 15 

546 Signs of the Times 15 

647 Byron’s Poems 30 

548 Mercedes of Castile 20 

549 Shelley’s Poems 30 

550 German Literature 15 

551 Woodstock, by Scott 20 

552 Robert Browning’s Poems 20 

553 Sea Lions, by Cooper 20 

554 Stories for Parents 15 

555 Aurora Floyd 20 


556 Dame Durden, by ‘‘Rita” 20 

557 Count Robert of Paris. , . 20 

558 Fair, but False, by Clay . 10 

559 The Crater, by J. Cooper 20 

560 Adventurers, by Aimard 10 

561 Portraits of John Knox. . 15 

562 Oak (^enings, by Cooper 20 

563 Seed-Time and Harvest. 15 
5M Hand-Book for Kitchen,. 20 
565 Modem Painters. Vol. 


i., by Ruskin 20 

566 Amndel Motto, by Hay. . 20 

567 Trail-Hunter, by Aimard 10 

568 Words for the Wise 15 

569 The Abbot, by Scott 20 

570 Satanstoe, by Cooper 20 

571 Coimt Cagliostro, etc 15 

572 Modern Painters. Vol. II 20 

573 Pearl of the Andes 10 

574 Stories for Young House- 

keepers 15 

575 Quentin Durward 20 

576‘ Chain-Bearer, by Cooper 20 

577 Mod. Painters. Vol. ni, 20 

578 Fred’kthe Great. Vol. I. 20 

579 Lessons in Life 15 

5^ Fred’ktheGreat. Vol. II. 20 

581 Talisman, by Scott ‘20 

582 Off-Hand Sketches 15 

583 Mrs. Heinans’s Poems.. . 30 

584 Wise Women of Inver- 

ness 10 

585 Tried and Tempted 15 

586 St. Ronan’s Well 20 

587 Ways of the Hour 20r 

588 To the Bitter End 20 

589 Modern Painters. Vol. IV 25 

590 Old Myddelton’sJIoney . 20 

591 Fred’k the Great. Vol. ill 20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

593 Between Two Sins 10 

594 A Summer in Skye 29 

595 Anne of Geierstem 20 

596 Dead Sea Fruit 20 

597 Fettered for Life 25 

598 King of the Golden River 10 

599 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

600 A Brighton Night 20 

601 Precaution, by Cooper . . 20 

602 Oliver’s Bride, Oliphant., 10 

603 Red-skins, by Cooper.,.. 25 

604 Sidonie, by Daudet 20 

605 Aunt Margaret’s Mirror. 10 

606 Forbidden Fruit 20 

607 Ohruniclcs of Canougate. 15 


MELLICHAMPE 


A LEGEND OF THE SANTEE 



BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. 


AUTH(3B of “the partisan,” “the YEMASSEE,” “KATHEHINE WALTON,” 
“the scout,” “woodcraft,” “guy riveks,” etc. 


€Mlion. 


I 

> ^ / ’ 

: J ? 

NEW YORK; 

JOHN W. LOYELTi COMPANY, 

14 & IG Vesey Street, 

1885. 


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ADVERTISSMj]NT 


rut: story which follows is rather an episode in the progress 
)1 the “Partisan,” than a continuation of that romance. It 
no neces«arv connection with the previous story, nor does 
it form any portion of that series originally contemplated by 
the autlior, with the view to an illustration of the several 
prominent periods in the history of the revolution in iSouth 
Carolina; although it employs similar events, and disposes of 
some of the personages first introduced to the reader by that 
initial puDlication. The action of “ Mellichampe” begins, it 
is true, .vliere the “ Partisan” left off; and the story opens by 
a resumption of one of the suspended threads of that narrative. 
J3eyond this, there is no connection between the two works ; 
and the reader will perceive that even this degree of affinity 
has been maintained simply to indicate that the stories belong 
to the same family, and to prevent the necessity of breaking 
ground anew. Much preliminary narrative has thus been 
avoided ; and I have been enabled to obey the good old, pop- 
ular, but seldom-practised maxim> of plunging at once into the 
bowels of my subject. The “Partisan” was projected as a 
sort of ground-plan, of sufficient extent to admit of the subse- 
quent erection if any fabric upon it which the caprice of the 
author, or the q. antity of his material, might seem to warrant 
Mid encourage. 

The two works wnich I projected to follow the “Partisan,” 
wild to complete the series, were intended to comprise events 

\ 


2 


ADVKKTISEMKNT. 


more strictly liistorical tlian tliose wliicli Lave employed 
in this “Santee legend.” The reader must not, however, on 
hearing this, he less inclined to accept “ Mellichampe” as an 
historical romance. It is truly and legitimately such. It is 
imbued with the facts, and, I believe, so far as I myself may 
be admitted as a judge, it portrays truly the condition of the 
time. The events made use of are all Ihlstorical ; and* scarcely 
a page of the work, certainly not a chapter of it, \ f , waj.ting in 
the evidence which must support the assertion. The career 
of Marion, as here described during the precise period occu- 
pied by the narrative, is correct to the very letter of the writ 
ten history. The story of Barsfield, so far as it relates to 
public events, is not less so. The account which the latter 
gives of himself to Janet Berkeley — occurring in the thir- 
ty-seventh chapter — is related of him by tradition, and bears 
a close resemblance to the recorded history of the jiotorious 
Oolonel Brown, of Augusta, one of the most malignant and 
vindictive among the southern loyalists, and one who is 
said to have become so solely from the illegal and unjusti- 
:lable means which were employed by the patriots to make 
• him otherwise. The whole history is one of curious interest, 
s and, if studied, of great public value. It shows strikingly 
the evils to a w'hole nation, and thi’ough successive years, 
of a single act of popular injustice. Certainly, as the ebul- 
litions of popular justice, shown in the movements of revo- 
lution, are of most terrible effect, and of most imposing conse- 
quence; so the commission of a crime by the same hands, 
must, in like degree, revolt the sensibilities of the freeman, 
and inspire him with a hatred Avhich, as it is well-fminded, 
and sanctioned by humanity itself, must be unfor-yiving and 
extreme. The excesses of patriotism, when attaining power, 
have been but too frequently productive of a tyranny more 
dangerous in its exercise, and more lasting in i'.s effects, than 
the despotism which it was invoked to overthrow'. 

The death of Gabriel Marion, the nephew of the general, 
varies somewhat, in the romance, from the account given of the 
same event by history ; but the story is supported by tradition. 
The pursuit of the “swamp fox” by Colonel Tarleton — a pur- 


ADVERTlSiaiKNT. 


o 

O 


Buit dwelt upon witli mucli satisPaction by our historians, as an 
admirable specimen of partisan ingenuity on both sides, follows 
closely the several authorities, which it abridges. The, char- 
acter of Tarleton, and his deeds at tliis period, presetit a sin- 
gular contrast, in some respects, to what was known of him 
before. His popularity waned with his own party, and IiIl 
former enemies began to esteem him more favorably. Wr, 
have, in Carolina, several little stories, such as that in “Melli 
champe,” in which his human feelings are allowed to ajipear, 
at brief moments, in opposition to his wonted practices, and 
quite at variance with his general character. Nor do I see 
that there is any inconsistency between these several charat 
teristics. The sensibilities are more active at one momer.t 
than at another; and he whose mood is usually merciless and 
unsparing, may now and then be permitted the blessing of a 
tear, and the indulgence of a tenderness, under the influence 
of an old and hallowed memory, kept alive and sacred in some 
little corner of the heart when all is ossified around it. 

The destruction of the mansion-house at “Piney Grove” by 
Major Singleton, and the means employed to effect this object, 
will be recognised by the readers of Carolina history, and the 
lover of female patriotism, as of true occurrence in every point 
of view; the names of persons alone being altered, and a 
slight variation made in the locality. Indeed, to sum up all 
in brief, the entire materials of “ Mellichampe”— - the leading 
events — every general action — and the main characteristics, 
have been taken from the unquestionable records of history, 
and — in the regard of the novelist — the scarcely less credihle 
testimonies of that venerable and moss-mantled Druid, 'I'radi- 
tion. I have simpjy forborne to call it an historical romance, 
as it contained nothing which made an era in the time — noth- 
ing which, in its character and importance, had a visible effect 
upon the progress of the revolution. Let us now pass to other 
topics. 

It is in had taste, and of very doubtful })()licy, for an author 
to quarrel with his critics : the laugh is most usually agains'; 
him when he does so. I shall not commit this error, and ho^o 
not to incur this penalty ; nor, indeed, have T any good cause 


A D V E KTISEMENT. 


to justify me Jill the language of complaint. My critics have 
usually been indulgent to me far beyond my merits ; and I can 
see a thousand imperfections in my own books which they 
have either failed to discover, or forborne, in tenderness, to 
dwell upon. Farther, I may confess — and I find no shame in 
doing so — whenever they have dwelt upon deficiencies and 
defects, I am persuaded that, in most cases, they have done so 
with perfect justice. In many instances I have availed my- 
self of their opinions, and subsequent editions of my stories 
have always borne testimony to the readiness with which, 
whenever this has been the case, I have adopted their sugges- 
tions. Sometimes, it is true, an occasional personal and un- 
friendly reference — perhaps a shoAv of feelings even more 
equivocal in the case of some random reviewer — lias grazed 
harshly upon sensibilities which are not legitimate topics of 
critical examination ; but even these e\ idences of unjust as- 
sumption and false position have been more than counteracted 
ly the considerate indulgence of the vast majority — the kind- 
ness of the reader having more than neutralized the asperities 
of the reviewer. 

But while, in general, the opinions of the critic are acknowl- 
edged with respect and held in regard, there are one or t\yo 
topics upon Avhich I would willingly be justified with him. 
One friendly reviewer — a gentleman Avhose praise has usually 
been of the most generous and least qualified character — one 
Avhose taste and genius are alike unquestionable, and whose 
ow?i achievements in this department give him a perfect right 
to be heard on all matters of romance — has made some few 
objections to portions of the “Partisan,” and — with all defer- 
ence to his good judgment, and after the most cautious con- 
sideration — I am persuaded, with injustice. He objects to 
that story, in the first place, as abrupt and incomplete. That 
it is unfinished — that the nice hand has been wanting to 
smooth down and subdue its rude outlines into grace and soft- 
ness in many parts — I doubt not — I deny not. The work 
was too rapidly prepared for that; and the finish of art can 
only be claimed by a peoi)le with whom art is a leading object 
No other people are well able to pay for it — no other people 


ADVER'I’ISKMKNT. 


5 


are wiUhig to pay for it ; and, niulor tlie necessity of liaste, tlie 
arts ill our country must continue to struggle on, until tlie 
wealth of the people so accumulates as to enable the interior 
to react upon the Atlantic cities. When the forests shall cease 
to be attractive, we may look for societj’ to become stationary ; 
and, until that is the case, we shall look in vain for the per- 
fection of any of the graceful and retining influences of a na- 
tion. But the objection of my friend was one of more narrow- 
ing compass : it was simply to the story, as a story, that lie 
urged its want of finish — its incompleteness. This objection 
is readily answered by a reference to the plan of the “ Parti- 
san,” as set forth in the preface to that work. The story was 
proposed as one of a series, the events mutually depending 
upon each other for development, and the fortunes of the 
personages in the one naiTative providing the action and the 
interest of all. This plan rendered abruptness unavoidable; 
and nobody who read the preface, and recognised the right of 
an author to lay down his own standards and prescribe his 
own plans, could possibly utter these objections. The design 
may have been unhappy, and in that my error may have lain; 
but, surely, no objection can possibly lie to the incompleteness 
or abruptness of the one and introductory story, if no exception 
was taken to the plan at first. 

Another, and, perhaps, more serious cause of issue lies be- 
tween us. My friend objects to the preponderance of low and 
vulgar personages in my narrative. The question first occurs, 
“ Does the story profess to belong to a country and to a period 
of history which are alike known — and does it misrepresent 
either?” If it does not, the objection will not lie. In all 
other respects it is the objection of a romanticist — of one who 
is willing to behold in the progress of society none but its 
most lofty and elevated attributes — who will not look at the 
materials Avhich make the million, but who picks out from their 
number the man who should rule, not the men who should 
represent — who requires every second person to be a demigod, 
or hero, at the least — and who scorns all conditions, that only 
excepted which is the ideal of a pure mind and delicate imagi- 
nation. To make a fairy tale, or a tale in which none but the 


6 


A DYERTTSEMENT. 


colors of tile rose uicl -rainbow shall predominate, is a very 
different, and, let. me add, a far less difficult matter, than to 
depict life as we discover it — man in all his phases, as he is 
modified by circumstance, and moulded by education — and 
man as the optimist would have, and as the dreamer about 
inane perfectibility delights to paint him. My object usuall}’’ 
has been to adhere, as closely as possible, to the features 
and the attributes of real life, as it is to be found in the 
precise scenes, and under the governing circumstances — some 
of them extraordinary and romantic, because new — in which 
my narrative has followed it. In this pursuit, I feel con- 
fident that I have “ nothing extenuated, nor set down aught 
in malice.” I certainly feel that, in bringing the vulgar 
and the vicious mind into exceeding activity in a story of 
the borders, 1 have done mankind no injustice ; and while 
I walk the streets of the crowded city, and Avhere laws are 
said to exist, and in periods which, by a strange courtesy, 
are considered civilized, I am still less disposed to admit that 
my delineations of the species in the wilds of our country, and 
during the strifes of foreign and intestine warfare, arc drawn 
in harsh colors and by a heavy hand. I am persuaded that 
vulgarity and crime must always preponderate — dreadfully 
preponderate — in the great majority during a period of war; 
and no argument would seem necessary to sustain the asser- 
tion, when we look at the insolence and brutality of crime, as 
it shows itself among us in a time of peace. Certainly, if 
argument be needed, we shall not have to look far from our 
great cities for the evidence in either case. 


W. G. S. 


MELLICHAMPE 


CHAPTER L 

^ THE CURTAIN RISES. 

The battle of Horcliester was over ; the victorious partisans, 
Buccessfnl in tlieir object, and bearing away with tbeni tbe 
prisoner wboin they bad rescued from tlie felon’s deatb, were 
already beyond tbe reach of tbeir enemies, when Major Proc- 
tor, the commander of the British post, sallied forth from his 
station in tbe hope to retrieve, if possible, the fortunes of the 
day. A feeling* of delicacy, and a genuine sense oi' pain, 
had jirompted him to depute to a subordinate oflicer the duty 
of attending Colonel Walton to the place of execution. '^Phe 
rescue of the prisoner bad tbe effect of inducing in his mind 
a feeling of bitter self reproach. The mortified pride of tbe 
soldier, tenacious of his honor, and scrupulous on tbe subject 
of his trust, succeeded to every feeling of mere buman forbeai- 
ance ; and, burning with shame and indignation, tbe moment 
he heard a vague account of the defeat of tbe guard and the 
rescue of Walton, be led forth tbe entire force at his command, 
resolute to recover tbe fugitive or redeem bis forfeited credit 
by bis blood. He bad not been jjrepared for such an event as 
that which has been already narrated in tbe last pages of 
“ Tbe Partisan,” and was scarcely less surprised, though more 


10 


MELLICHAMPE. 


resolute aiicl ready, than the astounded soldiers under his com- 
mand. How should he have looked for tlie presence of any 
force of the rebels at such a moment, when the defeat and 
destruction of Gates’s army, so complete as it had been, ha 3 
paralyzed, in the minds of all, the last hope of the Americans! 
With an audacity that seemed little less than madness, and 
was desperation, a feeble but sleepless enemy had darted in 
between the fowler and his prey — had wrested the victim of 
the conqueror from his talons, even in the moment of his fierce 
repast; and, with a wild courage and planned impetuosity, 
had rushed into the very jaws of danger, without shrinking, 
and with the most complete impunity. 

The reader of the work of which the present is offered as 
a continuation, will perhaps remember the manner in which we 
found it necessary to close that story. It was from a scene 
of i^loody strife that we hurried the chief personages of the 
narrative ; and, only solicitous for their safety, paused not to 
consider the condition of the field, or of the other parties who 
remained behind. To that field we will now return, and at a 
moment which leaves it almost doubtful whether, in reality, 
the strife be ended. The cry of men in their last agony — 
the panting prayer for a drop of water from the gasping wretch, 
through whose distended mouth the life-blood pours forth more 
freely than the accents that implore Heaven and man alike 
for succor and relief — the continued flight *of the affrighted 
survivors, and the approaching rush of Proctor’s troop — tliese 
speak as loudly for the dreadful conflict as the shrill blast of 
the hurrying trumpet, or the sharp clashing of conflicting 
steel. The beautiful town of Dorchester, in a bright flame at 
several points, illumined with an unnatural glare the surround' 
ing fields and foliage, and, with the shrieks of flying women 
and children, still more contributed to the terrible force of the 
picture. The ruddy light bathed and enveloped for miles 
around, with a brilliancy deeper than that of the sun, the high 
tops of the towering pines, while the thick dense smoke, 
ascending over all, hung sluggishly and dark in the slum 
berous sky of August, like some of those black masses of 
itorm that usually come in the train, and burst in ruin ovei 


THE CURTAIN RISES. 


11 


the soiitliern cities, witli the flight of the sister month of Sep- 
temher. 

The Ininy of Major Proctor was in vain. He came too late 
to retrieve tlie fortunes of the fight. The partisans liad 
melted away like so many shadows. Vain were all his efforts, 
and idle his chagrin. He could only gaze in stupid wonder- 
ment upon the condition of the field, admiring and deploring 
tliat valor which had eluded his own, and set at naught all his 
precautions. Never had surprise been more complete ; never 
had enterprise been better planned or more perfectly executed, 
with so much hazard, and with so little loss. The whole 
affair was one to annoy the British commander beyond all 
calculation. There was nothing to remedy — there was no 
hope of redress. The rebels were beyond his reach ; and, 
even were they not, the force under Proctor was quite too 
small, and the condition of his trust, in and about Dorchester, 
of too much hazard and importance, to permit of his pursuing 
them. Convinced of this, he turned his attention to the field 
of battle, every step in the examination of which only con- 
tributed the more to his mortification and regret. Several of 
his best soldiers lay around him in the last agonies or the final 
slumbers of death; several were maimed or wounded, and 
the few who survived and had fled from the unlooked-for com- 
bat, had not, in every instance, escaped unhurt. But few of 
the partisans had fallen, and their wounds had all been fatal. 
They were no longer at the mercy of any human conqueror. 
There was none upon whom the mortified commander, had he 
been so disposed, could wreak his vengeance, and punish for 
the audacity of his rebel leader. The bitterness of his mood 
increased with the conviction that there was no victim upon 
whom to pour it forth. Bevenge and regret were alike 
unavailing. 

While thus he mused upon the gloomy prospect and the 
bloody field, the soldiers, who, meanwhile, had been dispersed 
about in the inspection of the adjoining woods and scene of 
strife, came before him, bringing an individual whom they had 
found, the only one who seemed to have escaped unhurt in the 
combat. Yet he was fortnd whefe the strife appeared to have 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


bee?: hottest. A pile of dead bodies was around him, and, 
when discovered, he was employed in turning over the sense- 
less carcases and dragging them apart, as if searching for some 
particular object. The British major started when he beheld 
him ; and, as he gazed upon the bronzed, sinister, and well- 
known features, and saw with what calm indifference the blear 
eye of the half-breed Blonay met his own, a doubt of his fidel- 
ity grew active, at the expense of one whose character had 
always been too equivocal to be held above the commission of 
the basest treachery. The broAv of the Briton put on new 
terrors as he surveyed him; and, glad of any victim, even 
though not the most odious, he addressed the reckless savage 
in the sternest language of distrust. 

“ Wliat do you here, Blonay ? Speak quickly, and without 
evasion, or you shall swing, by heaven, on that gallows, instead 
of him whom you have helped from it. Tell out the whole 
story of this traitorous scheme — unfold the share you had in 
it, and who were your abettors — who rescued the prisoner — 
by whom were they commanded — how many — and where, 
are they gone ? Answer, fellow ; answer, and without delay ; 
speak out !” 

Proctor could scarcely articulate his own requisitions, so 
intense were his anxiety and passion. The person addressed 
seemed almost totally unmoved by an exhortation so earnestly 
made, or only moved to defiance. His swarthy cheek grew 
even darker in its depth of hue, and his lips were now reso- 
lutely fastened together, as he listened to the language of his 
superior. His air, full of scornful indifference, and his position, 
lounging and listless, might have provoked Proctor to an act 
of violence, had they been maintained much longer. But, as 
if moved by more prudent counsels from within, the half-breed, 
in a moment after, changed his posture to one of more respect- 
ful attention. The rigidity passed away from his muscles — 
his high cheek-bones seemed to shrink — his eyes were lowered 

and his head, which had been elevated before into an un- 
wonted loftiness, was now suffered, in compliance with his 
usual habit, to fall upon one^ shoulder. His mood grew more 
conciliatory as he proceeded to reply to one, at least, of the 


TIIE CURTAIN RISES. 


13 


several questie.is wliicli Proctor had asked him, almost in a 
breath. Siill, however, the reply of the half-breed was found 
rather to accord with the first than the last expression of his 
air and attitude. 

And if you was to hang me up, major, you wouldn’t be any 
the wiser, and would hear much less than if you was to let me 
run.” 

“ No trifling, sirrah, but speak to the point, and quickly ; I 
am in no mood for jest. Speak out, and say what is the part 
you have taken in this business. The truth, sirrah — the 
truth only will serve you.” 

“ I’m no rebel, major, as you ought to know by this time. 
As for the truth, I’m sure I can tell it, if you’d ax me one 
thing at a time. I a’n’t sparing of the truth when I’ve 
got it.” 

“I do know you, sirrah, and know you too well to trust 
you much. Briefly, then, and without prevarication, do you 
know the parties who rescued Colonel Walton? What do 
you know of the matter ? The whole truth ; for I have the 
means of knowing whether you speak falsely or not.” 

“Well, now, major, I knows no great deal; but what I 
knows is the truth, and that I’ll tell. The men who foul here 
were Marion’s men, I reckon. I looked out from the bay- 
bushes there; I was doubled up in a heap, and I seed the 
whole business, from the very first jump.” 

“ Relate the matter.” 

“Relate — oh, ay — tell it, you mean. Why, then, sir, 
the rebels came down the trace, from out the cypress, I reckon, 
and ” 

“ Who led them ?” demanded Proctor, impatiently. 

“ Why I reckon ’twas Major Singleton.” 

“ Reckon ! Do you not know, sir ?” 

“ Well, yes, major, I may say I do, seeing that I seed him 
myself.” 

“ And why, sirrah, did you not shoot him down ? You knew 
he was a rebel — that a price was set upon his head — that 
you could have rendered no better service to your king and 
to yourself, than by bringing in the ears of a traitor so 


,.4 


MELLIOHAMPE. 


troiiblesomj ! Had you not your rifle, sin-ali ? Why, unless 
you are a rebel like himself, did you not use it?” 

“ Adrat it, major, it did go agin me not to pull trigger ; but 
you see, major, ’twould ba’ been mighty foolish now. More 
than once I had the drop on both of ’efn, and could easy 
enough ha’ brought down one or t’other with a wink ; but there 
was no fun in it, to think of afterward. I was only one shot, 
you see, sir, and quite too" close to get away. They were all 
round me, and I had to lie mighty snug, or they’d ha’ soon 
mounted through the brush upon me like so many varmints ; 
and the swamp’s a good mile off — too far off for a man that 
wants to hide his head in a hurry. It’s no use, major, you 
know, to lose one for one, when one’s all you’ve got.” 

“ Miserable coward !” exclaimed Proctor, with indignation. 

M iserable coward, to count chances at such a moment ; 
throwing away so good an opportunity. But who was the 
other person ? You spoke of another with Singleton.” 

“Eh? — what?” was the vacant and seemingly unconscious 
reply of Blonay. The impatience of Proctor appeared to 
increase. 

“ The other — the person beside Singleton. You said that 
your aim was upon both of them.” 

A quick, restless, dissatisfied movement followed on the part 
of the half-breed ; and, before he replied, he drew himself up 
to his fullest height, while a darker red seemed to overshadow 
his features. His answer was hurried, as if he desired to dis- 
miss the subject from his mind. 

“ T’other was Bill Humphries.” 

“ And why have you named him, in particular, with Single- 
ton?” 

“ ’ Jause I only seed him.” 

“ What ! you do not mean to say that these two men boat 
the guard and rescued the prisoner ?” demanded the Briton, 
with astonishment. 

“Adrat it, major, no — I don’t say so. There was a matter 
of twenty on ’em and more; but I didn’t stop to look after the 
rest. I took sight at them two — first one and then t’other; 
and, more than once, when they were cliopping right and left 


THE CURTAIN RISES. 


16 


arjriig tlie red-coats, I could lia’ dropped one or t’other for cer- 
tain, and would ha’ done so if ’twan’t for the old woman. She 
. would go on the hill, you see.” 

“ Who ?” asked the officer. 

“ Why, sir, the old woman. Jist when I was going to pull 
trigger upon that skunk Humphries, as he came riding down 
the road so big, I heard her cry out, and I couldn’t help seeing 
her. She did try hard to get out of the way of the horses, hut 
old people, major, you know, can’t move fast like young ones, 
and I couldn’t help her, no how.” 

“ Of whom do you speak now ?” demanded Proctor. “What 
old woman are you talking of?” 

Blonay simply lifted his finger, witliout changing counte- 
nance or position, while he pointed to a mangled carcass lying, 
a few paces from tlve place of their conference. It was there, 
indeed, that the soldiers of Proctor, on their coming up, had 
discovered him ; and the eye of the British major followed the 
direction of Blonay’s finger only to turn away in horror and 
disgust. The miserable features were battered by the hoofs 
of the plunging horses out of all shape of humanity, yet Proc- 
tor was not slow to comprehend the connection between the 
vagrant before him and his hag-like mother. Turning away 
from the spectacle, he gave directions to the men to assist in 
removing the carcass, under the direction of the son, whom he 
however proceeded to examine still farther, and from whom, 
after innumerable questions, he obtained all the leading par- 
ticulars of the fray. It seemed evident to Proctor, when his 
first feeling of exasperation had subsided, that the bereaved 
wretch before him was innocent of any participation in the as- 
sault of the partisans, and he soon dismissed him to the perfor- 
mance of those solemn offices of duty, the last which were to 
be required at his hands for the parent he had lost. 

Obedient to the commands of their superior, the soldiers drew 
nigh, and proceeded to transfer the corpse to one of the carts, 
which they had now already filled in part with the bodies 
of some of those who had been slain. The son resisted them. 

“ You a’n’t going to have her to Dorchester burying-ground 
—eh ?” 


16 


MELLICHAMI’E. 


“To be sure — where else?” was the gruff reply of the oul 
dier having charge of the proceeding. 

“Adrat it — she won’t go there,” replied Blonay. 

“And how the d — 1 can she help herself? She’s as dead, 
poor old creature, as a door-nail, and she’s been hammereo 
much harder. See — her head’s all mashed to a mummy.” 

He raised the lifeless mass, and allowed it to fall heavily in 
the cart, as if to convince the hearer, however unnecessarily, 
that she no longer possessed a will in the transaction. Blonay 
did not seem to heed the soldier, but explained his own mean- 
ing in the following words : — 

“ There’s a place nearer home the old woman wants to Ikj 
buried in. She a’n’t guine to sleep quiet in the churchyard, 
with all them people round her. If you wants to help me, now, 
you must give me a cart on purpose, and- then I’ll show you 
where to dig for her. She marked it out herself long time 
ago.” 

His wish was at once complied with, as the orders of Major 
Proctor had been peremptory. An additional cart was pro- 
cured, into which the mangled remains were transferred by the 
soldiers. In doing this, Blonay lent no manner of assistance. 
On the contrary, his thoughts and person were entirely given 
to another office which seemed to call for much more than his 
customary consideration. Bending carefully, in all directions, 
over the scene of strife, even as a hungry hound gathering up 
from the tainted earth the scent of his selected victim, he 
noted all the appearance of the field of combat, and with the 
earnest search of one looking for the ruined form of a lost but 
still remembered and loved affection, he turned over the un- 
conscious carcasses of those who had fallen, and narrowly ex- 
amined every several countenance. 

“ He a’n’t here,” he muttered to himself; and an air of satis- 
faction seemed to overspread his face. “ I thought so — I seed 
him go to the cart, and he warn’t hurt then. I’ll chaw the 
bullet for him yet.” 

Thus saying, his search seemed to take another direction, 
and he now proceeded to inspect the ground on which the bat- 
tle had taken pP.t < , I t. particular, he traced out upon the 


TIIK CURT Am RISILS. 


soft red edny, wliicli liad retniiied eveiy iiiipression, tlie various 
marks made by tlie lioofs of tlie shodden horses. One of these 
lu‘ heedfidly regarded, and pursued Avith an air of intense sat- 
islaction. The impression was that of a very small shoe — a 
deer like hoof-trace — quite unlike, and much smaller than 
tjiose made hy the other horses. There was another peculiar- 
ity in the shoe which may be noted. That of the right forefoot 
seemed in one place to be defective, ft had the appearance 
>f being either completely snapped in tAvain, and the parts 
slightl}^ separated directly in the centre, or by a stroke of the 
hammer, Avhile the metal Avas yet malleable, it had been de 
pressed by a straight narroAv line evenly across. Whateve. 
may have been the cause, the impression of the shoe upon the 
earth left this appearance of defect, making the track of its 
owner sufficiently conspicuous to one having a knoAvledge of, 
and on the look-out for, it. Having once satisfied himself of 
the continued presence of the shoe, with Avhich he seemed to 
have been previously familiar, he gave over his examination ; 
and, as the cart was now ready, and all preparations completed 
for the return of the party to the village, he gathered up his 
rifle, dreAv the ’coon-skin cap over his eyes, and, Avithout a 
Avord, at once fell in procession with the rest, folloAving close 
behind the body of his mother. Passing through the village 
of Dorchester, Avhere they only paused to procure a coffin, 
Avhich Avas furnished by the garrison, they proceeded directly 
to the miserable cabin a few miles beyond, Avhich she had hith- 
erto inhabited. Here, under a stunted cedar, in a little hollow 
of the Avoods behind her dAvelling, a stake, already driven at 
head and foot, designated the spot which she had chosen for 
her burial-place. The spade soon scooped out a space for her 
reception, and in a few moments the miserable and battered 
hulk of a vexed and violent spirit was deposited in silence. 
The son liiio^ered but a little while after the burial Avas over. 
He turned away soon after the rest ; and, without much shoAV 
01 sympathy, and Avith none of its feeling, those who had thus 
far assisted left him to his own mood in the now desolate abi- 
ding-place of his mother. • 


MELI.KJEAMl’K. 





CHAPTER 11. J 

INDIAN BLOOD. 

To estim?.te tlie solitucle of sucli a creature as Blouay iindei 
tlie present loss of liis parent, by any of those finer standards 
of humanity wliich belong to a higher class-.and better habits, 
Avould he manifestly idle and erroneous. But that his iso- 
lation previously from all others, and his close dependence for 
sympathy upon the one relative whom he had just lost, added 
largely to his degree of suffering now, is equally uiiquestioii- 
able. Supposing his mere human feelings to have been few 
and feeble, they were yet undivided. Concentrating upon the 
one object as they had done for so long a period, they had 
grown steady and unwavering; and, if not very strong or very 
active at any time, they were at least sufficiently tenacious in 
their hold to make the sudden wrenching of^ their bands 
asunder to be felt sensibly by the survivor. But he did full 
justice in his deportment to the Indian blood which predom- 
inated ill his veins. He had no uttered griefs ; no tears found 
their way to his cheeks, and his eyes wore their wonted 
expression, as he took his seat upon the floor qf his lonely 
cabin, and, stirring the embers upon the hearth, proceeded, 
with the aid of the rich lightwood which lay plentifully at hand, 
to kindle up his evening fire. 

But, if grief were wanting to the expression of his counte- 
nance, it did not lack in other essentials of expression. 
Having kindled his fire, he sat for some time before it in 
maiiitest contemjilatioii. His brow was knitted, his eyes fixed 
upon the struggling blaze, his lips closely compressed, and « 
general earnestness of hM)k indicated a laboring industry of 
thought, which, were he in the presence of another person, 


INDIA NT BLOOD. 


19 


Wv-Bild never Lave been suffered so plainly to appear. For 
some time be sat in this manner without change of position, 
and during all this period it would seem that he was working 
out in his mind some particular plan of conduct, in the pursuit 
of an object of no less difficulty than importance. Of that 
object we can only conjecture tbe nature from a reference to 
events, and to his actual condition. The vindictive blood 
within him — his irresponsible position in society — the severity 
of the treatment to which, justly or not, he had been subjected 
by one of the parties between whom the province was divided 
— and the recent dispensation which had deprived him of the 
companionship of one, who, however despicable and disgust- 
ing to all others, was at least a mother to him — were circum- 
stances well calculated to arouse the savage desire of ven- 
geance upon those to whom any of his sufferings might be 
attributed. 

'Phat such were his thoughts, and such the object of his 
deliberations, may safely be inferred from the few words of 
muttered declamation which fell from his lips at intervals while 
thus rapt in his contemplations. It would be to no purpose 
to record these words, since they do little more than afford a 
brief and passing sanction to the opinion we hav'c thus ventured 
to entertain, and prove, at the same time, the character of a 
mood seemingly hostile to humankind in general. They 
were bitter and comprehensive, and summed up, to the cost of 
humanity, all the wrongs to which he hfftl been subjected, and 
many others, wrongs in his sight only, of which he but com- 
plained. Yet an attentive listener might have observed, tha* 
in what he said there was au occasional reference to one 
individual in particular, who was yet nameless ; which ref- 
erence, whenever made, called up to his black, penetrating, 
but blear eyes, their most malignant expression. All their 
fires seemed to collect and to expand with a new supply 
Df fuel at such moments, and his swarthy skin glowed upon 
his cheeks, as if partaking with them a kindred intensity of 
blaze. 

He remained in this state of feeling and reflection for some 
hours, indulging his usual listnessness of habit while pursuing 


20 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


tlie tlioiiglit wliicli Ills mood liad prompted; when, at length, 
as if he had arrived at a full and satisfactory conclusion, hd 
arose from his place, supplied the tire with new brands, and, 
as night had now set in, proceeded to bring forth his supper 
from the little cupboard where it usually stood. His fare was 
simple, and soon despatched. When this duty had been per- 
formed, he next proceeded to such arrangements as seemed to 
indicate his preparation for a long journey. He brought forth 
from the recess which had supplied him with his evening repast 
a small sack of corn-meal, possibly a quart or more, and a 
paper containing at least a pound of common brown sugar. A 
huge hoe, such as is used in the corn-field, was then placed by 
him before the blazing fire — the flour and sugar, previously 
stirred together, were spread thickly over it, and, carefully 
watching the action of the heat upon his mixture, he took 
due heed to remove it at that period when he perceived the 
flour to grow slightly brown, and the sugar to granulate and 
form in common particles along with it. It was then with- 
drawn from the fire, exposed for an hour to the air, and 
afterward poured into a sack made of the deerskin, which 
seemed to have been employed frequently for a like purpose. 
To this, in another skin, the remnant of a smoked venison ham 
was added, and the two parcels, with one or two other items 
^in the shape of hoe-cake and fried bacon, were deposited in 
a coarse sack of cloth, opening in the centre like a purse, and 
so filled as to be worn across the saddle after the fashion of the 
common meal-bag. This done, be proceeded to what appeared 
a general overhaul of the hovel. Various articles, seemingly 
of value, were drawn out from their secret recesses ; these were 
carefully packed away in a box, and, when ready for removal, 
their proprietor, honestly so or not, proceeded to secure them 
after his own manner. Leaving the cabin for an instant, he 
went forth, and soon returned bearing in his hands a spade, 
with which, in a brief space, he dug a hole in the centre of 
the apartment sufficiently large to receive ,and conceal his 
dei)Osite. Here he buried it, carefully covering it over, and 
treading down the earth Avith his feet until it became as hard 
as that which h.ad been undisturbed aroiuid it. Placing every- 


•INDIAN BLOOD. 


21 


thing which he was to 'remove ready for the moment of depar- 
ture, he threw himself upon the miserable pallet of his hut, and 
soon fell into unbroken clujid-ers. 

The stars were yet shird ig,. and it lacked a good hour of 
the daylight, when he arose from his couch ana oegan to bestir 
himself in preparations for departure. Emerging from the 
hovel with his bundles, as we have seen them prepared the 
night before, be placed them under a neighboring tree, and, 
undoing the string from the neck of tlie hungry cur that kept 
watch in his kennel immediately beside the hovel’s entrance, 
he lett him in charge of the deposite, while he took his way 
to the margin of a little canebrake a few hundred yards off. 
There, with a shrill whistle and a brief cry two or three times 
repeated, he called up from its recesses a shaggy pony — a 
creature of the swamps — a hardy, tough, uncouth, and unclean 
little animal, which followed him like a dog to the hovel which 
he bad left. The hollow of a cypress yielded him saddle and 
bridle, and the little goat-like steed was soon equipped, and 
ready for bis rider. This done, Blonay fastened him to a tree 
near bis dog, and, without a word, proceeded to apply the torch 
to several parts of the building. It was not long before the 
liames rose around it in every quarter ; and, lingering long 
enough to perceive that the conflagration must now be effectual, 
the half breed at length grasped his rifle, mounted his tacky, 
and, followed by his ill-looking dog, once more took his way 
to the village of Dorchester. 

Moving slowly, he did not reach the village until the day 
had fully dawned. He then proceeded at once to the garrison, 
and claimed to be admitted to the presence of the commander. 
Proctor was too good a soldier, and one too heedful of his duty, 
to suffer annoyance from a visit at so early an hour ; and, 
though not yet risen, he gave orders at once for the admission 
of the applicant, and immediately addressed himself to the 
arrangement of his toilet. With a subdued but c.alm air of 
humility, Blouay stood before the Briton — his countenance as 
immovable and impassive as if he had sustained no loss, and 
was altogether unconscious of jirivation. Regarding him 
with more indulgence than had hitherto buen his custom, 


22 


MELLICHAMPE.. 


Proctor demanded of him, first, if the soldiers had properly 
assisted him in the last offices to his mother ; and next, his 
present business. Bloiiay had few words, and his reply was 
brief. 

“ The old woman didn’t Avant much help, and we soon put 
lier away. About what I' want now, major, it a’n’t much, and 
it’ll be a smart bit of time ’fore I come bacl^ to trouble you agin.” 

“ Why, where do you propose to go ?” demanded the Briton. 

“ I’m thinking to go up along by Black river, and so up into 
Williamsburgh, and perhaps clear away to old Kaddipah — 
Lynch’s creek, as they calls it now. I don’t knoAV how long I 
may be gone, and it’s to get a paper from you that I’m come.” 

“To Black river and Lynch’s creek — Avhy, know you not . 
that the rebels are as thick as hops in that quarter? What 
carries you there ?” 

“ There’s a chap in that quarter stands indebted to me, and 
I wants he should settle, seeing pay-day’s come and gone long 
ago. I a’n’t ’fear’d of the rebels, for I’m used to the woods 
and swamps, and ’taint often I’ll be in their company. I’ll 
keep out of harm’s Avay, major, as long as I can ; and when I 
can’t keep out any longer, why, then I’ll stand a shot, aiul 
have done with it.” 

“ And what sort of paper is it that you desire from me ?” 
asked Proctor. 

“ Why, sir — a little protection like, that’ll be good agin our 
own people, and stand. up for my loyalty. You can say I’m a 
true friend to his majesty, and how you knows me ; and that’ll 
be enough, when you put your own name to it in black and 
white.” 

“ But to shoAv that to a rebel will be fatal to you. How will 
you determine between them?” 

“Every man has his OAvn mark, major, same as every tree; 
and where the mark don’t come up clear to the eye, it will to 
thcTeel or the hearing. I’m a born hunter, major, and must 
take my chance. I a’n’t afear’d.” 

“And yet, Blonay, I should rather not give you a passport 
to go in that quarter. Can 3’ou not wait until Lord Cornwal 
lis takes that route ? Is 3'our claim so verj^ considerable 


INDIAN BLOOD 


23 


’Taint so mucli, major, Imt I can’t do so well without it. 
I’ve been in want of it long enough, and I’m dubous him that 
owes me will clear away and go into North Carolina, and so 
I’ll lose it. You needn’t be scared for me, major; I’m not 
going to put my head in the bull’s mouth IJecause his hide has 
a price in market ; and I think, by the time I get up there, 
Marion’s men will be all off. I a’n’t afeard.” 

Proctor, after several efforts to dissuade him from his |)ur 
frose, finding all his efforts unavailing, gave him the required 
passport, which he carefully concealed from sight, and with 
many acknowledgments and professions of loyalty, took liis 
departure. From Dorchester, proceeding to the battle-ground, 
he again carefully noted the tracks of the one shoe, which he 
followed with the keen eye of a hunter, from side to side of the 
road, in its progress upward to the cypress swamp. Sometimes 
losing it, he turned to the bushes on either hand, and where 
they seemed disordered or broken, he continued the trail, 
until, again emerging from the cover, he would find, and resume 
the more distinct impression, as it was made upon the clay or 
sandy road. In this way he reached tlie broken ground of 
the swamp, and there he lost it. Alighting, therefore, he con- 
cealed his pony in a clump of bushes, and with his rifle primed 
and ready for any emergency, he pursued his farther search 
into the bosom of the swamp on foot. Here he still thought 
that he might find the partisans — if not the entire troop of 
Singleton, a least a portion of it; probably — though on this 
head he was not sanguine — the very object of his search. 
From point to point, with unrelaxing vigilance and caution, he 
itole along until he reached the little creek which surrounded 
and made an island of the spot where Singleton had held his 
temporary camp. 

The place was silent as the grave. He crossed the narrow 
stream, and carefully inspected the ground. It bore traces 
enough of recent occupation. The a.shes of several fires, still • 
retaining a slight degree of warmth — the fresh track of horses, 
that of the broken slioc among tliem — hacked trees and torn 
bushes — all told of the presence there, within a brief space, of'* 
tl..€ >v,'^ persons whom he now sought. The search of Hlonay 


21 


MKLLICIIAMI’K. 


wortliy of that of the ablest Indian hunter, was thorough and 
complete. -From the one island, he took his way to sundry 
others which lay in its neighborhood, susceptible of occupa' 
tion, in all of which he found traces of men and horses, encour- 
aging him to proceepd farther and with continued caution. At 
length he passed an oozy bog, and stood upon a little hum- 
mock, which seemed formed for a place of refuge and repose. 
An 'awful silence rested over the spot, and the exceeding height 
of the cypresses, and the dense volume of undergrowth which 
surrounded and darkened the wide intervals between them, 
seemed almost too solid to admit of his progress. The gloom 
of the region had all the intensity of night, and appeared to 
impress itself upon the feelings of one even so habitually want- 
ing in reverence as the half-breeds. He stopped for an in- 
stant, then moving forward by a route which he seemed to 
adopt with confidence, he rounded the natural obstruction of 
woods and thicket, and an amphitheatre opened before him. 
not so spacious as it Avas perfect. 

He paused suddenly — he heard a footstep — there was evi- 
dently a rustling in the woods. He stole behind a tree for an 
instant, sank upon his knee, lifted his rifle, which he cocked 
with caution, and watched the quarter intently from which the 
sound had arisen. A shrill scream rose upon the air, and in 
the next instant he beheld a monstrous wildcat, startled like 
himself, and by him, bound forward to an opposite point of the 
area, and leap into the extending arms of a rotten tree, that 
shook under its pressure. Perching upon the very edge of a 
broken limb which jutted considerably out, it looked down with 
threatening glance upon his approach. He rose from his knees 
and advanced to the spot whence the animal had fled and over 
which it still continued to brood with flaming eyes and an 
aroused appetite. It was not long before Blonay discovered 
the occasion of its presence. 

The figure of a man, huge in frame, seemingly powerles.^i, 
lay stretched upon the ground. The half-breed soon recog- 
nised the person of the maniac Framptoii. He lay upon the 
little mound which covered the remains of his wife. To this 
he seemed to have crawled witli the latest efforts of his^trengtk 


INDIAN BLOOD. 


25 


That strength- MMS iioav nigh exhanstecl. His clothes were in 
tatters, and covered with traces of blood and mire. His blood- 
shot eyes w^ere glazing fast. The curtain of death was nearly 
drawn over them, but his feeble hand Avas uplifted occasionally 
to the tree where the wildcat sat watching hungrily for the 
moment when the restless but feeble motion of the dying man 
should cease. Blonay approached, and, as his eye glanced 
from man to beast, he lifted his rifle, intending to shoot the 
monster. The action seemed to irritate the creature, Avhose 
half-suppressed scream, as Blonay advanced his foot toward 
him ill the act to fire, appeared to defy and threaten him. 

“ The varmint !” exclaimed the half-breed, “ I could shoot 
him now easy enough, but it’s no use. There’s plenty more on 
’em ill the SAvamp to come after him, and I don’t love them 
any better than him. There’s no reason why I should keep 
the meat from him only for them. It’s the natur of the beast 
to want its fill, and what the wild cat don’t eat the buzzards 
must. The varmint won’t touch him so long as he can move a 
finger, and when he can’t he won’t mind much how many of 
’em get at him.” 

So speaking, he turned from the animal to the maniac. 
The hand was uplifted no longer. The eye had nothing of 
life’s language in it. The last lingering consciousness had 
departed for ever ; and Blonay looked up to the watching 
wild-ca,t, as he turned the body with his foot, muttering aloud 
as he did so — “ Adrat it, you may soon come down to dinner.” 

The animal uttered a short, shrill cry, two or three times 
repeated, and Avith a rising of its bristles, and such a flashing 
of its eyes, that Blonay half determined to shoot it where it 
stood, for Avhat appeared to him its determined insolence. 
Once, indeed, he did lift his rifle, but, with the thought of a 
moment, he again dropped it. 

“ It’s only a waste,” he muttered to himself, “ and can do no 
good. Besides, it’s a cJiawed bullet. It’s of no use to bite 
lead when a wildcat’s to be killed. Smooth bullet and smooth 
bore Avill do well enough, and them I ha’ii’t.” 

Such were his words as he turned aAvay from the spot, and 
departed for the place where his horse Avas fastened — such 

2 


26 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


was his philosophy The bullet, marked for vengeance by the 
impression of his teeth, was not to be thrown away upon mere 
pastime ; and, though feeling a strong desire to destroy the 
cat, he was yet able to forbear. He hurried through the quag- 
mire, but had not gone far when the repeated screams of the 
animal, calling probably to its fellows, announced to the half 
breed that he had already begun to exult in the enjoyment of 
his long-withheld and hu’^^an banquet. 


THE COMPANIONS. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 

THE COMPANIONS. 

Blonay emerged from the swamp only to commence a jour 
ney of new difficulties, the termination of which he could not 
foresee. Leaving him upon the road for a while, we will now 
change the scene to that beautiful tract of country lying close 
along the borders of the Santee, and stretching thence, in a 
northwardly direction, across the present district of Williams- 
hurgh to the river Kaddipah — a stream which, according to 
modern usage, lias shared the fate of most of our Indiau 
waters, and, exchanging that more euphonious title conferred 
upon it by the red man, is now generally known to us as 
Lynch’s creek. With a patriotic hardihood, that will be ad- 
mitted to have its excuse if not its necessity, we choose to 
preserve in our narrative the original Indian cognomen when- 
ever we may find it necessary to refer to it ; and the reader, 
whose geographical knowledge might otherwise become con- 
fused, will henceforward be pleased to hold the two names as 
identical, if not synonymous. 

To the Santee^ extending from point to point in every 
direction leading to the Kaddipah, the action of the Carolina 
partisans was for a long time limited. Our nan*ative will be 
confined within a like circuit. The entire region for nearly 
two hundred miles on every hand, was in the temporary and 
occasional occupation of Marion and his little band. With 
the commission of the state, conferring upon him the rank of a 
brigadier in its service. Governor Rutledge had assigned to the 
brave partisan the entire charge in and over all that immense 
tract comprehended within a line drawn from Charleston along 
the Atlantic to Georgetown, inclusive — thence in a westerly 


MELLICllAMPE. 


direction to Camden, and tlience in another line, including the 
Santee river, again to Charleston. This circuit comprehended 
the most 'wealthy and populous portion of the state, and could 
not, under existing circumstances, have been intrusted to better 
hands. And yet, not a foot of it but was in actual possession 
and under the sway of the invader. His forts and garrisons 
at moderate intervals, covered its surface, and his cavalry, 
made up chiefly of foreign and native mercenaries, constantly 
traversed the entire space lying between them. 

The worthy governor of South Carolina, thus liberal in 
appropriating this extensive province to the care of the parti- 
san, dared not himself set foot upon it unless under cover of 
the night ; and the brave man to whom he gave it availed 
himself of the privileges of his trust only by stratagem and 
stealth. Fortunately, the physical nature of the country so 
bestowed was well susceptible of employment in the hands of 
such a warrior as Marion. It afforded a thousand natural and 
almost inaccessible retreats, with the uses of which the partisan 
had been long familiar. The fastnesses of river and forest, 
impervious to the uninitiated stranger, were yet a home to the 
‘‘swamp fox.” He doubled through them, night and day, to 
the continual discomfiture and mortification of his pursuers. 
From the Santee to the Black river, from the Black river 
the two Peedees, through the Kaddipah, to thence to Wacca- 
nmh, and back again to the Santee, he led his enemies a long 
chase, which wearied out their patience, defied their valor, and 
eluded all their vigilance. Availing himself of their exhaus- 
tion, he would then suddenly turn upon the pursuing parties, 
W4,tch their movements, await the moment of their neglect or 
separation, and cut them up in detail by an unlooked-for blow, 
which would amply compensate by its consequences for all the 
previous annoyance to which he ^ight have been subjected 
in the pursuit. 

It was to his favorite retreat at Snow’s island that Major 
Singleton followed his commander, after the successful on- 
slaught at Dorchester. Himself familiar with the usual hiding- 
places, he had traced his general with as much directness as 
was possible in following one so habitually cautious as Marion 


THE COMPANIONS. 


He Imd succeeded in uniting witli liim, tlioiigli after much 
difficulty ; and, as the partisifn studiously avoided remaining 
very long in any one ‘place, the union had scarcely been 
effected before the warriors were all again in motion for the 
upper Santee. This river, bold, broad, rapid, and full of intri- 
cacies, afforded the finest theatre for the sort of warfare which 
they carried on. Its course, too, was such as necessarily 
made it one of the great leading thoroughfares of the state. 
Detachments of the enemy’s troops were continually passing 
and repassing it, in their progress either for tlie seacoast or the 
interior. Supplies and recruits to Cornwallis — then in North 
Carolina — despatches and prisoners in return from him to, the 
Charleston garrison, made the region one of continual life, 
and, to Marion, of continual opportunity. Hanging around 
its various crossing-places, like some vigilant and vengeful 
hawk in confident expectation of his prey, he kept an unsleep- 
ing watch, an untiring wing, an unen-ing weapon. In its 
intricacies we shall find him now — the swamps not less liis 
home than the element of his peculiar genius. His scouts are 
dispersed around him in all directions, and in all disguises — 
lying in the bush by the wayside — croucliing in the oozy mire 
in close neighborhood with the reptile — watchful above, and 
bulled in the thick overhanging branches of the tree — 
crawling around the cottage enclosure, in readiness and wait 
ing for the foe. 

The scene to which we would now direct the eye of our 
reader is sufficiently attractive of itself to secure his attention. 
The country undulates prettily around us, for miles, in every 
direction; now rising 'gently into* slopes, that spread tViem- 
eelves away in ridges and winding lines, until the sight fails 
tc discover the valleys in which they lose themselves — h\id 
#iow sinking abruptly into deepening hollows and the quietest 
delli^ whose recesses and sudden windings, thickly covered 
with the massive and umbrageous natural growth of the region, 
terminate at last, as by a solid wall, the long and variously- 
shadowed prospect. On the one hand a forest of the loftiest 
pines, thousands upon thousands in number, lies in the deep 
majesty of unappropriated silence. In the twilight of their 


30 


MELLICHAMPE. 


dense and sheltered abodes, tlie meditative and melancholy 
mind might fitly seek, and readily obtain, security from all 
obtrusion of uncongenial objects. Even tht subtile and op- 
pressive beams of the August sun come as it were by stealth, 
and tremblingly, into their solemn and sweet recesses. Their 
tops, gently waving beneath the pressure of the slight breeze as 
it hurries over them, yield a strain of murmuring song like the 
faint notes of some spirit mourner, which accords harmoniously 
with the sad influence of their dusky forms. The struggling and 
stray glance of sunlight, gliding along their prostrated vistas, 
rather contributes to increase than remove the sweet gloom 
of these deep abodes. The dim ray, like an intrusive pres- 
ence, flickering between their huge figures with every move- 
ment of the declining sun, played, as it were, by stealth, 
among the brown leaves and over the gray bosom of the earth 
below. Far as the eye can extend, these vistas, so visited, 
spread themselves away in fanciful sinuosities, until the mind 
becomes unconsciously and immeasurably uplifted in the con- 
templation of the scene, and we feel both humbled and eleva- 
ted as we gaze upon the innumerable forms of majesty before 
us, rising up, it would seem, without a purpose, from the bosom 
of earth — living without notice and without employ — un- 
curbed in their growth — untroubled in their abodes — and 
perishing away in season only to give place to succeeding myr- 
iads having a like fortune. 

On the other hand, as it were, to relieve the mind of the 
spectator from the monotonous influence of such a survey, how 
differen-t is the woods — how various the other features of the 
scene around us. Directly opposed to the pine-groves on the 
one hand, we behold the wildest and most various growth of 
the richest southern region rising up, spreading and swelling 
around in the most tangled intricacy — in the most luxurious 
strength. There the hickory and gum among the trees attest 
the presence of a better soil for cultivation, and delight the 
experienced eye of the planter. With these, clambering over 
their branches, come the wild vines, with their thorny arms 
and glowing vegetation. Shrubs gather in the common way ; 
dwarf trees and plants, choked, and overcome, yet living still, 


THK COM PACTIONS. 


31 


attest the fruitfulness of a land which yields nutriment hut 
denies place ; and innumerable species of fungi, the yellow 
and the purple fringes of the swamps, the various mosses, as 
various in hue as in form and texture — parasites that have no 
root, and, like unselfish affections, only claim an object upon 
which to bestow themselves — these, crowding about and cluS' 
tering in gay confusion along the dense mass, swelling like a 
fortress before the eye, seem intended to form a labyrinthine 
retreat for the most coy of all selfish creations. 

Immediately beyond this dense and natural thicket, the 
scene — still the same — presents us with another aspect. A 
broken and dismantled fence, the rails half rotten and decay- 
ing fast on all sides, seems to indicate the ancient employment 
of the place by man. The period must have been remote, 
however, as the former product of the spot thus enclosed had 
been superseded by the small-leafed or field pine-tree, in suf- 
ficient size and number almost to emulate the neighboring and 
original forest. There was little here of undergrowth, and 
yet, as the pine thus occupying it is of inferior and frequently 
of dwarf size, the thicket was sufficiently dense for temporary 
concealment. It had a farther advantage in this respect, as it 
sunk rapidly in sundry places into hollows, that lay like so 
many cups in the bosom of crowding hills, and had for their 
growth, like the original wood we have just passed over, a 
tangled covering of vines and shrubbery. 

It was on the side of one of these descents, about noon, on 
the third day after Blonay’s departure from Dorchester, that 
we find two persons reclining, sheltered by a clump of the 
smaller pines of which we have spoken, and sufficiently con- 
cealed by them and the shrubbery around, to remain uncon- 
cerned by the near proximity of the highway. The road ran 
along, and within rifle distance, to the south, below them. 
The elder of the two was a man somewhere between thirty 
and forty years of age. His bulky form, as it lay extended 
along the grass, denoted the possession of prodigious strength ; 
though the position in which he lay, with his face to the 
ground, and only supported by his palms, borne up by his el- 
bews resting upon the earth, would incline the spectator to 


32 


MKI>LICnAMrE. 


conceive liim one not often disposed for its exercise. An air 
of sluggish inertness marked his manner, and seemed to single 
him out as one of the mere beef-eaters — the good citizens, 
who, so long as they get wherewithal to satisfy the animal, 
are not apt to take umbrage at any of the doings of the world 
about them. His face, however, had an expression of its own ; 
and the sanguine flush which overspread the full cheeks, and 
tlie quick, restless movement of his blue eye, spoke of an 
active spirit, and one prompt enough at all times to govern 
and set in motion the huge bulk of that body, now so inert 
and sluggish. His forehead, though good, was not large; his 
chin was full, and his nose one of length and character. He 
was habited in the common blue and white homespun of the 
country. A sort of hunting-shirt, rather short, like a doublet, 
came over his hips, and was bound about his waist by a belt 
of tlie^ame material. A cone-crowned hat, the rim of which, 
by some mischance, had been torn away, lay beside him, and 
formed another portion of his habiliments. Instead of shoes, 
he wore a rude pair of buckskin moccasins, made after the In- 
dian manner, though not with their usual skill, and which lack- 
ed here and there the aid of the needle. His shirt-collar lay 
open, without cravat or covering of any kind ; and, by the 
deepl}’^ -bronzed color of the skin beneath, told of habitual ex- 
posure to the elements. A rifle lay beside him — a long in- 
strument, — and in his belt a black leather case was stuck 
conveniently, the huge knife which it protected lying beside 
him, as it had just before been made subservient to his mid- 
day meat. 

His companion was a youth scarcely more than twenty 
years of age, who difiered greatly in appearance from him we 
have attempted to describe. His eye was black and fiery, hib 
cheek brown and thin, his hair of a raven black like his eye, 
his chin full, his nose finely Roman, and his forehead impo- 
high. His person was slender, of middle height, and 
seemed to indicate great activity. His movements were fever- 
ishly restless — he seemed passionate and impatient, and his 
thin, but deeply red lips, quivered and colored with every 
word and at every movement. Tliere was more of pretension 


THE COMPANIONS. 


33 


111 his dress than in that of his companion, though they were 
not unlike in general structure and equipment. Like him he 
wore a hunting-shirt, but of a dark green, and it could be seen 
at a glance that its material had been of the most costly kind. 
A thick fringe edged the skirts, which came lower, in propor- 
tion to his person, than those of his companion. Loops of 
green cord fastened the coat to his neck in front, and a belt 
of black polished leather confined it to his waist. He also 
carried a rifle — a Spanish dirk, with a broken handle of ivory, 
was stuck in his belt, a pouch of some native fur, hanging 
from his neck by a green cord, contained his mould and bul- 
lets. This dress formed the uniform of a native company. 
His powder-horn had been well chosen, and was exceedingly 
and curiously beautiful. It had been ingeniously wrought in 
scraping down, so as to represent a rude but clear sketch of the 
deer in full leap, a hound at his heels, and a close thicket hi the 
perspective, ready to receive and shelter the fugitive. These 
were all left in relief upon the horn, while every other part 
was so transparent that the several grains of powder were dis- 
tinctly visible within to the eye without. 

The youth was partially reclining, with his back against a 
tree, and looking toward his elder companion. His face was 
flushed, and a burning spot upon both cheeks told of some 
vexing -cause of thought which had been recently the subject 
of conversation between them. The features of the elder 
indicated care and a deep concern in the subject, whatever it 
may have been, but his eye was mild in its expression, and his 
countenance unruffled. He had been evidently laboring to 
sooth his more youthful comrade ; and though he did not seem 
to have been as yet very successful, he did not forego his 
efforts in his disappointment. The conversation which followed 
may help us somewhat in arriving at a knoAvledge of the diffi- 
culty before them. 

“ I am not more quick or impatient,” said the youth to his 
companion, as if in reply to some remark from the other, “ than 
a man should be in such a case. Not to be quick when one is 
wronged, is to invite iiijustice ; and I am not so young. Thumb- 
screw, as not to havefou) d that out by my own experience. 1 

2 * 


u 


MKLLICHAMPE, 


know no good that comes of submission, except to make tyrants 
and slaves ; and I tell you, Thumbscrew, that so long as my 
name is Ernest Mellichampe, I shall never submit to the one, 
nor be the other.” 

“ A mighty fine spirit, Airnest ; and to speak what’s gospel 
true, I likes it myself,” was the reply of the other, who ad- 
dressed the first speaker with an air of respectful deference 
as naturally as if he had been taught to regard him as a 
superior. “ I’m not,” he continued, “ I’m not a man myself tc 
let another play tantrums with me ; and, for sartain, I sha’n t 
find fault with them that’s most like myself in that partic’lai. 
If a man says he’s for fight. I’ll lick him if I can ; if I can’t 

— that’s to say, if I think I can’t — I’ll think longer about it. 
I don’t see no use in fighting where it’s ten to one — where, 
indeed, it’s main sartain I’m to be licked ; and so, as I says. 
I’ll take time to think about the fighting.” 

“ Wliat ! until you’re kicked?” replied the other, impet 
uously. 

“ No, no, Airnest — not so bad as that comes to neither. My 
idee is, that fighting is the part of a beast-brute, and not for 
a true-born man, that has a respect for himself, and knows 
what’s good-breeding; and I only fights when there’s brutes 
standing waiting for it. Soon as a man squints at me as if he 
was going to play beast with me, by the eternal spl^ters. I’ll 
mount him, lick or no lick, and do my best, tooth, tusk, and 
grinders, to astonish him. But, afore that, I’m peaceable as a 
pine stump, lying quiet in my own bush.” 

“Well, but when you’re trodden upon?” said the other. 

“ Why then, you see, Airnest, there’s another question — 
who’s atop of me? If it’s a dozen. I’ll lie snug until they’re 
gone over : I see nothing onreasonable or onbecoming in that 

— and that, you see, Airnest, is jist what I ax of you to do. 
1 hey a’n’t treading on you ’xactl 3 ^ tho’ I do confess they’ve 
been mighty nigh to it; but then, you see, there’s quite too many 
on ’em for you to handle with, onless you play ’possum a little. 
*1 here’s no use to run plump into danger, like a blind bull 
into a thick fence, to stick fast these and be hobbled ; when; 
if you keep your eyes open, and a keen scent, you can track 


THE COMPANIONS. 


35 


all your enemies, one by one, to his own kennel, and smoke 
’em out, one after another, like a rabbit in a dry hollow. Hear 
to my words, Airnest, and don’t be vexed now. Dang my 
buttons, you know, boy, I lote you the same as if you was my 
own blood and bone, though I knows my place to you, and 
know you’re come of better kin, and are better taught in book- 
larning; but, by God ! Airnest, you hav’n’t lamed, in all your 
laming, to love anybody better than I love you.” 

“ I know it, Thumby, I know it — I feel it,” said the other, 
moved by the earnestness of his companion, and extending his 
hand toward him, while his eyes filled with ready tears. — “1 
know it, 1 feel it, my friend ; forgive me if I have said any 
thing to vex you. But my heart is full, and my blood is on 
fire, and I must have utterance in some way.” 

“ Never cry, Airnest — don’t, I tell you — ’taint right — it’s 
onbecoming, Airnest; but — dang it!” he exclaimed, dashing 
a drop from his own eye as he spoke, “ dang it ! I do believe 
I’ve been about to dc the same thing. But it’s all the fault 
of one’s mother, as larns it to us so strong when we’re taking 
suck, that we ’member it for ever after. A man that’s got a- 
fighting, and in the wars with tories one day and British the 
next, it’s onbecoming for him to cry ; and, Airnest, though 
things are black enough about home, it’s not black enough to 
cry for. It’ll come light again before long, I’m sartain. I’ve 
never seed the time yet when there wasn’t some leetle speck 
of light on the edge of the cloud somewhere — it mought be 
ever so leetle, or ever so fur off, but it was there somewhere; 
it mought be in the east, and that showed the clearing away 
was further off; or it mought be in the northward, and that 
wasn’t the best place either for it to break in, but it was 
somewhere for certain — that leetle speck of v/hite; jist like 
a sort of promise from God, that airth should have sunshine 
again.” 

“ Would I could behold it now,” responded the other, gloom- 
ily, to the cheering speech of his companion, “ would I could 
behold it now! But I see nothing of this promise — there is 
no bright speck in the dark cloud which now hangs about my 
^rtunes.” 


36 


MKLLICHAMPR. 


“ You’re blit young, yet, Airnest, and it a’n’t time yet for 
you to talk so. You haven’t had a full trial yet, and you’re 
only at the beginning — as one may say, jist at the threshold 
of the world, and ha’n’t quite taken your first step into it. 
Wait a little ; and if you’ve had a little nonplush at the begin- 
ning, why, man, I tell you, larn from it — for it’s a sort of 
lesson, which, if you larn it well, will make you so much the 
wiser to get on afterward, and so much the happier when the 
storm blows over. Now, I don’t think it so bad for them that 
has misfortunes from the jump. They are always the best 
people after all ; but them that has sunshine always at first, I 
never yet knew one that could stand a shower. They’re always 
worried at everything and everybody — quarrelling with this 
weather, and quarrelling with that, and never able to make the 
most of what comes up to ’em. Hold on, Airnest — shut your 
teeth, and keep in your breath, and stand to it a leetle 
longer. That’s my way ; and, when I keep to it, I’nr always 
sure to see that leetle white speck I’ve been telling about, 
wearing away all round, till it comes right before my eyes, 
and there it sticks, and don’t move till the sunlight comes out 
again.” 

“ You may be right in your philosophy,” responded the 
youth, “ and I would that I could adopt it for my own ; but my 
experience rejects, and my heart does not feel it. These 
evils have come too fast and too suddenly upon me. My father 
cruelly murdered — my mother driven away from the home 
df my ancestors — that home confiscated, and given to the 
murderer — and I, a hunted, and, if taken, a doomed man ! It 
is too much for my contemplation. My blood boils, my brain 
burns —I can not think, and when I do it is only to madden.” 

The speaker paused in deepest emotion. His hand clasped 
his forehead, and he sank forward, with his face prone to the 
earth upon which he had been reclining. His companion 
lifted his hand, which he took into his own, and, with a deep 
solicitude of manner, endeavored, after his own humble fashion 
of argument and speech, to exhort his youthful and almost 
despairing associate to better thoughts and renewed energy. 

“ Look up, Airnest, my dear boy, look up, and listen to me. 


THE COMPANIONS. 


37 


Ainiest. It’s unbecoming to be cast down like a woman, be* 
cause trouble presses upon the heart. I know what trouble is, 
and, dang my buttons, Airnest, I feel for you all over ; but 1 
don’t like to see you cast down, because then I think you a’n’t 
able to turn out to have satisfaction upon tbe enemy for what 
they’ve done to you. Now, though I do say you’re to keep 
quiet, and lie snug at the present, that isn’t to say that you’re 
to do nothing. No, no — you’re to get in readiness for what’s 
to come, and not be wanting when you have a chance to turn 
your enemy upon his back. It a’n’t revenge, but it’s justice, 
and my lawful, natural right, that I fights for ; and you mustn’t 
be cast down, Airnest, seeing that then you mought’n be ready 
to take the benefit of a good opportunity.” 

“ It’s revenge not less than justice,” said the youth, impa* 
tiently. “ I must have the one, whether the other bo obtained 
or not I will have it — I will not sleep in its pursuit; and 
yet, Thumbscrew, I will take your advice — I will be prudent 
in order to be successful — I will pause in order to proceed. 
Do not fear me now — I shall do nothing which will risk my 
adventure or myself ; but I will temper my mood with caution, 
and seek for that vengeance, which shall be the white speck 
among the clouds of which you have spoken.” 

“Well, now, that’s what I call becoming, and straight-for- 
ward right. I’m for — but hush ! don’t you hear something like 
a critter ? and — that was the bark of a cur. I’ll be sworn to it.” 

The sturdy woodman thrust his ear to the earth, and the 
sound grew more distinct. 

“ Keep close, Airnest, now, and I’ll look out, and make an 
examination. There’s only one horse, I reckon, from the 
sound ; but I’ll see before I leave the bush. I’ll whistle should 
I want you to lend a hand in the business.” 

Seizing his rifle as he spoke, with an alacrity which seemed 
incompatible with his huge limbs, and must have surprised one 
who had only beheld him as he lay supine before, he bounded 
quickly but circumspectly up the hill, and through the copse 
toward the highway whence the sounds that had startled them 
appeared to proceed. The cause of the disturbance may very 
well be reserved for explanations in another chapter. 


38 


mp:lliohampe. 


CnAPTER IV. 

YORKSHIRE VERSUS YORKSHIRE. 

Before reaching the road the sturdy woodman became yet 
more cautious, and, stealing from cover to cover, thus eluded 
any eye that might he approaching upon- it. He gained the 
cover of a little hedge, formed of the tallow-hush and myrtle, 
and crouched cautiously and silently out of sight, as he per- 
ceived, from the short, quick cry of the cur, that he was ad- 
vancing rapidly. He had scarcely done so, and arranged an 
apeiture in the copse through which he might observe the 
road, when he beheld the cause of the uproar which the dog 
was making. Leaping in irregular hounds, and evidently 
nearly exhausted, a frightened rabbit came down the trace, 
inclining from the opposite and open ground of pine forest, to 
the close bushes in which he was himself concealed. 

“ Poor Bon,” exclaimed the woodman, “ it’s a bad chance 
for her this time. I only hope she won’t pop into this quarter, 
or it will be a bad chance for some of her friends.” 

The muttered apprehensions of the woodman were realized. 
His eye had scarcely noted the pursuing dog which emerged from 
the wood closely upon the rabbit’s heels, when the poor thing 
rushed to the very shelter in which he stood, and, darting be- 
tween his legs, was there secured by their involuntary pres- 
sure together. He stooped to the earth, and took up the trem- 
oling animal, which lay quivering in his grasp, preferring, by 
the natural prompting of its instinct, to trust the humanity of 
man rather than the well-known nature of the enemy wliich 
had pursued it. 

“ Poor Bonny,” said the Avoodinan, soothingly, as he caressed 
it. Poor Bon — you could’nt help it, Bon.iy — you were too 


YORKSHIRK VERSUS YORKSHIRE. 


39 


mighty frightened to know tlie mischief you’re a-doing. Ten 
to one you’ve got us into a hobble, now ; but there’s nothing 
to be done but to see it out.” 

The dog by this time rushed into the brush, and recoiled 
instantly as he beheld the stranger. The quick, rapid cry 
with which he had pursued the rabbit, was exchanged for tlie 
protracted bark with which he precedes his assault upon tlie 
man'. His white teeth were displayed, and, as if conscious of 
approaching support, he advanced boldly enough to the attack. 
The woodman grew a little angry, and lifting his rifle in one 
hand, while maintaining the terrified but quiet rabbit in the 
other, he made an exhibition of it which prompted the cur to 
give back. It was then that, through the bushes, he saw a 
person approaching along the road whom he readily took to 
be the owner of the dog. He dropped his rifle instantly, which 
be suffered to rest, out of sight, against a tree which stood be- 
hind him ; and, hallooing to the new-comer, he advanced with- 
out hesitation from his place of concealment into the road. 

Hlonay — for it was he — drew up his tacky, and the rifle 
which he carried across the saddle, in his hand, was grasped 
firmly, and, at the first moment, was partially uplifted ; but 
seeing that the stranger was unarmed, he released his hold, 
and saluted him with an appearance of as much good-humor 
as he could possibly put on. Thumbscrew advanced to him 
with the trembling rabbit which he made the subject of his 
first address. 

“How are you, stranger? I reckon this is some of your 
property that I’ve got here — seeing as how your dog started 
it. I cotched it ’twixt my legs — the poor thing was so scared, 
it did’nt know — not it — that ’twas going out of the frying-pan 
into the fire. It’s your’n now ; though, dang it, stranger, if so 
be you don’t want it much, I’d rether now you’d tell me to put 
it down in the bush and let it run, while you make your dog 
hold in. It’s so scared, you see, and it’s a pity to hurt any- 
thing in natur when you see it scared.” 

He patted the feeble and trembling animal encouragingly 
as he spoke, and Blonay was surprised that so large a man 
should be so gently incliiied. He himself cared little, at any 


40 


MELLiCHAMPJi. 


time, about the feelings and the fears of yet larger objecta 
llis reply to the application for mercy was favorable, how- 
ever. 

“ Well, if you choose, my friend, you can let it go. I don’t 
want it. The dog only started it for his own fun, seeing that 
it’s the nature of the beast. Here, Hitch’em, Hitch’em ! lie 
down, nigger — and shut up. You can let her go now, my 
friend.” 

Blonay quieted his dog, and Thumbscrew took his way into 
cover, watched his moment, and, with a parting pat upon its 
back, and a cheering “Hurrah, Bou ! run for it with your best 
legs,” dismissed the little captive, once more in safety, to its 
forest habitations. He then returned to the spot where Blonay 
remained in waiting, and, in his blunt, good-humored way, at 
once proceeded to commence a conversation with him, after 
the manner of the country, with a direct question. 

“Well, now, stranger, you’ve been travelling a bit — can 
you tell me, now, if you’ve seed anywhere in your travels a 
man or boy that looks very much like a thief, riding upon a 
fine, dark-bay nag, that looks like he was stolen?” 

“ No, that I haven’t, friend ; I’m much obliged to you, but I 
haven’t seen any,” was the reply of Blonay. 

“Well, you needn’t be obliged to me, stranger, seeing it’s 
no sarvice to you, the question I ax’d you. But if it a’n’t 
axing you too much, I should like to know which road you 
come.” 

“ Well, to say truth, now, my friend, I don’t know the name 
it goes by^ it’s a main bad road, you see.” 

“I ax, you see, because, when you tells me you a’n’t seed 
the nag and them that’s riding him on the road you come, it’s 
a clear chance they’ve gone t’other. So, now, if you’ll only 
but say which road you tuk. I’ll take the contrary.” 

The reasoning was so just, and the air of simplicity so com- 
plete, which the inquirer had put on, that Blonay saw no ne- 
cessity for keeping concealed so unimportant a matter as the 
mere route which he had been travelling; so, without any fur- 
ther scruple, he gave the required information. 

“Well, then, I reckon, stranger, you’re all the way from 


YORKSHIRE VERSUS YORKSHIRE. 


41 


the big city, clear down to the salt seas. There’s a power of 
people there now, a’n’t there V* 

“ I a’n’t from Charleston,” coldly replied the half-breed. 

“ Oh, you a’n’t ! but, do tell — you bear’d about a man that 
was hung at Dorchester — reckon you seed itl” 

“ He worn’t hung ; he got off.” 

‘•What! they pardoned him — and so many people as was 
giiine to see him dance upon nothing? What a disappoint- 
ment ! I was a-guine down myself, but, you see, I lost my 
critter, and so I couldn’t; and now* I’m glad I didn’t, if so be, 
as you say, he worn’t hung.” 

“No, he worn’t hung: there was a fight, and he got a./ay. 
But this is only what they tell me ; I don’t know myself.” 

“ Wlio tell’d you V' 

“ The people.” 

“ What, them that seed it? Perhaps them that aid it — 
eh ?” 

This was pushing the matter quite too far, and Blonay be- 
gan to be uneasy undei so leading a question. He replied 
quickly, after the evasive manner which was adopted between 
them — 

“ No I I don’t know ; they told me they heard it, and I 
djdn’t ax much about it, for it worn’t my business, you see.” 

“ Oh ! that’s right — everybody to his own business, says 1 ; 
and, where people’s a-fighting, clean hands and long distance 
is always best for a poor man and a stranger. They gits 
a-figliting every now and then in these here parts, and they 
do say they’re a-mustering now above the sodgers.” 

“What soldiers?” demanded Blonay, with an air of interest 

“ Ell ! what sodgers ? Them that carries guns and swords, 
and shoots people, to be sure ; them’s sodgers, a’n’t they ?” 

“ Yes ; but have they got on uniforms, or is it only them that 
carries a rifle, or a knife, or perhaps a rusty sword, or a hatchet ? 
Some soldiers, you know, has fine boots* and shoes, with shi- 
ning buttons, and high caps and feathers ; and some ha’u’t got 
shoes, and hardly breeches.” 

Blonay had become the examiner, and had begun with a 
leading question also. He nad fairly described the British 


42 


MELLICHAMPE. 


and toiy troops in liis enumeration of the one, and the rehelji. 
or wliigs, in the description of the latter class. The forinei 
were usually v/ell provided with arms, ammunition, and every 
necessary warlike equipment ; the whigs Avere simply riilemeii, 
half the time without powder and lead, and, during the greater 
part of the war, without necessary clothing. To tell Blonay 
which of these two classes was in the neighborhood, was no 
part of Thumbscrew’s policy ; and his reply, though unsatis- 
factory, was yet given with the most oflP-handed simplicity. 

“ They’re all the same to me, stranger, breeches or no 
breeches, boots or no boots, high caps and feathers, or a rag- 
ged steeple like mine — they’re all the same to me. A sodger’s 
a sodger; any man that can put a bullet into my gizzard, or 
cut me a slash over my cheek, up and down, without any mar- 
cy for my jawbone — he’s a sodger for me, and I gits out of 
his way mighty soon, now, Avhen I hear of his coming. It’s a 
bad business that, stranger, and Iliope you don’t deal in it. 
I say I hope so, for I don’t like to see a man I may say I 
know, chopped up and down, and bored thiough his head, or 
his belly, without any axing, and perhaps onbeknown to him.” 

No interest could be seemingly so earnest as that which 
Thumbscrew manifested, as he thus expressed his anxiety on 
the score of Goggle’s connection with the military. He pui 
his hand warmly, as he spoke, upon the neck of tlie little tacky 
which the other bestrode — a movement which the rider did 
not seem very greatly to approve, as he contrived, in the next 
moment, by a sudden jerk, to wheel the animal away from tiie 
grasp of the stranger, and to present himself once more in front 
of him. Thumbscrew did not appear to charge the movement 
so much upon the rider as the horse. 

“Well, now, stranger, your nag is mighty skittish. It’s a 
stout pony that, and smells, for all the world, as if it had fed 
on cane-tops and salt-marsh all its life. Talking about horses, 
now, I’ve heard say that they were getting mighty scarce down 
in your parts, where the troops harry them with hard riding. 
Some say that they were buying and stealing all they could, 
to bring tj-oops up into this quarter. You a’n’t bear’d any say 
about it, I reckon ?” 


YOEKSIITRE . VERSUS YORKSHIRE. 


43 


The inquiry was adroitly insinuated, but Blonay was not to 
be caught, even had he been in possession of the desired infor- 
mation. He availed himself of the question, however, to sug- 
gest another, by which, had his companion been less guarded, 
he might have discovered to which party he belonged. 

“ AYhat troops?” he asked, carelessly. 

“ Why, them that fights, to be sure. Troops, if I’m rightly 
told, is them men that rides on horseback, and fights with 
swords and pistols, and the big cannon.” 

“ Yes, troopers,” said Blonay, tired, seemingly, of putting 
questions so unprofitably answered. 

“Ay — troopers, is it? — I always called them troops. But 
you a’n’t toll’d me if they’re coming in these parts. You a’n’t 
seed any on the road, I reckon? — for you a’n’t hurt, that I 
can see. But, may be you out-travelled ’em ; they shot at 
• you, though ?” 

The volubility of Thumbscrew carried him so rapidly on in 
his assumptions, that it was with difficulty Blonay kept him- 
self sufficiently reserved in his communications. He was at 
some pains, however, to assilre him that he had neither seen 
any troops, nor been pursued, nor shot at by them ; that his 
whole journey hithei’to had been unmarked by any other ad- 
venture of more importance than the catching of the single 
rabbit, in which Thumbscrew ha4 himself so largely assisted. 
This reference drew the, attention of Thumbscrew to the rag- 
ged and mean-looking cur that followed the stranger. He ad- 
mired him exceedingly, and at length proceeded to ask — 
“ Won’t you trade him, now, stranger? I want a hunting-dog 
mightily.’* 

Blonay declined, and was so pleased and satisfied with the 
simplicity of his new acquaintance, that he ventured to ask 
some direct questions ; taking care, however, that none of 
them should convey any committal of his sentiments. He 
stated, for himself, that he was on his way to Black river and 
the Santee; that he was looking after a person who was in- 
debted to him ; that he was a peaceable man, and wanted to 
get on without fighting, and he was therefore desirous of avoid- 
ing all combatants In order to do this, he would like to 


44 


MELLICHAMPB. 


know where Gainey’s men were (tories), and Marion^s men — 
if they were likely to lie in his way by pursuing such and 
sucli routes, all of which he named, and seemed to know, and 
how he should best avoid them. In making these inquiries, 
Blonay had well adopted the manner of one solicitous for 
peace, and only desirous of getting to the end of his journey 
without difficulty or adventure. In referring to the different 
leaders of the two parties in that section of country, he took 
especial care, at the same time, to utter no word, and exhibit 
no look or gesture, which could convey the slightest feeling 
of partiality or preference, on his part, for either; and all that 
Thumbscrew could conjecture from the inquiry, supposing that 
the traveller was disguising the truth, was, that, so far from 
his wishing to avoid all of these parties, by obtaining a knowl- 
edge of their lurking-places, he was rather in search of one or 
the other of them. His scrutiny failed uttered when he strove^ 
to find out which. He did not long delay to answer these 
inquiries, which he did in the unsatisfactory fashion of all the 
rest. 

Well, now, stranger, you ax a great deal more than I have 
to answer. These here people that you talk about, I hear, 
every day, something or other said of them, but nothing very 
good, now, either way. It’s now one, and now another of 
them that shoots the poor^ff'lk’s cattle, and maybe shoots 
them too, and there’s no help for it. Sometimes Gainey’s 
people run over the country, burning and plundering — then 
Marion’s men comes after, burning and plundering what’s left. 
So that, between the two, honest, quiet, good-natured sort of 
people, like you and me, stranger — we get the worst of it, and 
must cut strap and take the brush, rather than lose life with 
property. It’s a sad time, now, stranger, I tell you.” 

“ But you ha’n’t heard of either of ’em in these parts lately, 
have you ?” inquired Blonay. 

“ Dang it, stranger, they’re here, there, and everywhere : 
they’re never long missing from any one place, and — dang 
my buttons! — I think I hear some of them coming now.” 

Thumbscrew turned as he spoke, and appeared to listen. 
Sounds, as of horses’ feet, were certainly approaching, and 


YOKKSHIRK VERSUS YORKSHIRE. 4^ 

perceptible to Blonay not less than to his dog. With the con- 
firmation of his conjecture, the woodman turned quickly to the 
forest cover, and, shaking his head, cried to his companion, as 
he bounded into its depth — 

“ Look to yourself, stranger, for, as sure as a gun, some of 
them sodgers is a-coming. They’ll shoot you through the 
body, and chop you into short meat, if you don’t cut for it.” 

He disappeared on the instant, but not in flight. His pur- 
pose was to mislead Blonay, and it was sufficient for this that 
he simply removed himself from sight. Keeping the edge of 
the forest, as close to the road as he well might, to avoid dis- 
covery from it, he now chose himself a station from which he 
might observe the approaching horsemen, and, at the same 
time, remain in safety. This done, he awaited patiently their 
approach. His late companion, in the meanwhile, whose 
policy was a like caution, quickly followed the suggestion and 
example of the woodman, and sank into the forest immediately 
opposite that which the latter had chosen for his shelter. 
Here he imbowered himself in the woods sufficiently far for 
concealment, and, hiding his horse, and placing his dog in 
watch over him, he advanced on foot within a stone’s cast from 
the road, to a spot commanding a good view of everything 
upon it. Here, in deep silence, he also stood — a range of 
trees between his person and that of the approaching horse 
men, and his form more immediately covered by the huge body 
of a pine, from behind which he occasionally looked forth in 
scrutinizing watchfulness. 


46 


MELLTOHAMPK. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE TORY SQUAD. 

'Fhe two watchers had not long to wait in their several 
places of concealment. The sound which had disturbed their 
conference, and sent them into shelter, drew nigher momen- 
tarily, and a small body of mounted men, emerging at length 
from a bend in the irregular road over which they came, ap- 
peared in sight. They were clothed in the rich, gorgeous 
uniform of the British army, and were well-mounted. Their 
number, however, did not exceed thirty, and their general form 
of advance and movement announced them to be less thought- 
ful, at that moment, of the dangers of ambuscade and battle, 
than of the pleasant cheer and well-filled larder of the neigh- 
boring gentry. Two officers rode together, in advance of them 
some little distance, and the free style of their conversation 
the loud, careless tones of their voices, and the lounging, indif- 
ferent manner in which they sat upon their horses, showed 
them to be, if not neglectful of proper precautions, at least 
perfectly unapprehensive of any enemy. A couple of large 
military wagons, drawn each by four able-bodied horses, ap- 
peared in the centre of the cavalcade, the contents of which, 
no doubt, were of sufficient importance to call for such a guard. 
Yet there was little or nothing of a proper military discipline 
preserved in the ranks of the troop. Following the example 
of the officers who commanded them, and who seemed, from 
their unrestrained mirth, to be engaged in the discussion of 
some topic particularly agreeable to both, the soldiers gave a 
loose to the playfullest moods — wild jest and free remark 
passed from mouth to mouth, and they spoke, and looked, and 
laughed, as if their trade was not suffering, and its probable 


THE TORT SQUAD. 


47 


termination a bloody death. Their merriment, however, as it 
was subdued, in comparison Avith that of the officers, did not pro- 
voke their notice or rebuke. The whole party, in all respects, 
seemed one fitted out for the purposes of pleasure rather than 
of Avar. Elated by the recent victories of Cornwallis over 
Gates, and Tarleton over Sumter, together with the supposed 
flight of Marion into North Carolina, and the dispersion of his 
partisans, the British officers had foregone much of that severe, 
but proper discipline, through AAdiich alone they had already 
been able to achieve so much. The commander of the little 
troop before us moved on with as much indifference as if ene- 
mies had ceased to exist, and as if his Avhole business now Avas 
the triumph and the pageant which should follow successes so 
complete. 

“ Gimini !” exclaimed ThumbscreAv, as he beheld, at a dis- 
tance, their irregular approach. “ Gimini ! if the major was 
only here now, jist with twenty lads only — twenty Avould do 
— maybe he wouldn’t roll them redjackets in the mud !’^ 

The close approach of the troop silenced the further 
speculations of the woodman, and he crouched among the 
shrubbery, silent as death, but watchful of every movement. 
The person of the captain who commanded them was rather 
remarkable for its strength than symmetry. He was a man 
of brawn and muscle — of broad shoulders and considerable 
height. His figure was unwieldy, however, and, though a 
good, he was not a graceful horseman. His features Avere fine, 
but inexpressive, and. his skin brown with frequent exposure. 
There Avas something savage rather than brave in the expres- 
sion of his mouth, and his nose, in addition to its exceeding 
feebleness, had an ugly bend upward at its termination, which 
spoke of a vexing and querulous disposition. His companion 
was something slenderer in his person, and considerably more 
youthful. There was nothing worthy of remark in his ap- 
pearance, unless it be that he Avas greatly given to laughter — 
an unprofitable habit, which seemed to be irresistible and con- 
firmed in him, and which was not often found to aAvait the 
proper time and provocation. He appeared of a thoughtless 
temper — one who was content with the surfaces of things, and 


MKLLTCHAMPE. 


•t8 

did not disturb tlie waters with a discontented spirit, seeking 
for more pleasure than the surface gave him. At the moment 
of their approach the good-humor of the two was equally 
shared between them. The subject upon which they had been 
conversing appeared to have been productive of no small 
degree of merriment to both, and of much undisguised satis- 
faction to the elder. He chuckled with uncontrollable compla- 
cency, and, long after the laugh of his companion had ceased, 
a lurking smile hung upon his lips, that amply denoted the still 
lingering thought of pleasure in his mind. Though ignorant 
of the occasion of their mirth before, we may now, as they 
approach, hear something of the dialogue, which was renewed 
after a brief pause between them ; and which, though it may 
not unfold to us the secret of their satisfaction, may at least 
inform us, in some degree, of much that is not less necessary 
for us to know. The pause was broken by the younger of the 
two, whose deferential and conciliatory manner, while it spoke 
the inferior, was, at the same time, dashed with a phrase of 
fireside familiarity, which marked the intimacy of the boon 
companion. 

“And now, Barsfield, you may laugh at fortune for ever 
after. You have certainly given her your defiance, and have 
triumphed over her aversion. You have beaten your enemy, 
won your commission, found favor in the sight of your com- 
mander, and can now sit down to the performance of a nominal 
duty, with a fine plantation, and a stout force of negroes, all 
at your command and calling you master. By St. George and 
the old dragon himself, I should be willing that these rebels 
should denounce me too as a tory, and by any other nickname, 
for rewards like these.” 

“ They may call me so if they think proper,” said the other, 
to whom the last portion of his comrade’s remark seemed to be 
scarcely welcome ; “ but, by God ! they will be wise not to let 
me hear them. I have had that name given me once already 
by that insolent boy, and I did not strike him down for it — he 
may thank his good fortune and the interposition of that fellow 
Witherspoon, that I did not — but it will be dangerous for any 
living man to repeat the affront.” 


THE TORT SQUAD. 


49 


“And why should you mind it, Barsfield?” responded his 
companion. “ It can do you no mischief — the term is perfectly 
innocuous. It breaks no skin — it takes away no fortune.” 

“ No ! but it sticks to a man like a tick, and worries him all 
Ills life,” said the other. 

“ Only with your thin-skinned gentry. For such an estate 
as yours, Barsfield, they might be licensed to call me by any 
nickname which they please.” 

“ I am not so indulgent. Lieutenant Clayton,” replied the 
other; “and, let me tell you that you don’t know the power 
of a nickname among enemiec. A nickname is an argument, 
and one of that sort too, that, afier once hearing it, the vulgar 
are sure ne /cr to listen to any other. It has been of no small 
influence already in this same war — and it will be of greater 
effect toward the conclusion, if it should ever so happen that 
the war should terminate unfavorably to the arms of his maj- 
esty.” 

“ But you don’t think an/ such result possible ?” was the 
immediate reply of ClaytTo. 

“No — not now. This last licking of Sumter, and the 
wholesale defeat of Gates, have pretty well done up the rebels 
in this quarter. Georgia has been long shut up, and North 
Carolina will only wake up to find her legs fastened. As for 
Virginia, if Cornwallis goes on at the present rate, he’ll strad- 
dle her quite in two weeks more. No ! I think that rebellion 
is p.retty nigh wound up ; and, if we can catch the ‘ swamp fox,’ 
or find out where he hides. I’ll contrive that we shall have no 
more difficulty from him.” 

“ Let that once take place,” replied his companion, “ apd 
you may then retire comfortably, in the enjoyment of the 
ctium cvm digniiate, the reward of hard fighting and good 
generalship, to the shady retreats of ‘ Kaddipah.’ By-the- 
way, Barsfield, you must change that name to something mod- 
ern — something English. I hate these abominable Indian 
names — they are so uncouth, and so utterly harsh and foreign 
in an English ear. 'VVe must look up a good name for your 
settlement.” 

“ You mistake. I would not change the name for the 


50 


MELLICHAMPE. 


world. I have always known the place by that name, long 
before I ever thought to call it mine ; and the name sounds 
sweet in my ears. Besides I like these Indian names, of which 
yon so much complain. They sound well, and are always 
musical.” 

“ Tlmy are always harsh to me, and then they have no 
meaning — none that we know anything about.” 

“And those Ave employ have as little. They are generally 
borrowed from individuals who were their proprietors, and this 
is the case with our Indian names, Avhich have the advantage 
in softness and eir phasAC. hlo ! ‘Kir.ddipah Thicket’ shall not 
lose its old name ir. ga’.r.mg r. :icw OAvner. It wouldn’t look 
to me half so beautiful if I were to give it any other. I have 
rambled over its woods Avhen a boy, and Iirnted through them 
when a man, man ar_d boy, for thirty years — known all its 
people, and the name seems to me a history, and brings to me 
a Avhole world of recollections, which I should be apt to lose 
were I to change it.” 

“ Some of them, Barsfieid, it appears to me that you should 
prefer to iooe. The insult of old Mellichampe, for example.” 

“I reveuged it!” Avas the reply, quickly and gloomily 
uttered. “I re/enged it in his blood, and the debt is paid.” 

“ But tlie co.i ? did you not, only noAV, complain of him also 1 
clid^he not call you ” 

“ Tory 1 I’ll finish the sentence for you, as I would rather, 
if the word is to be repeated in my ears, have the utterance to 
myself. You are an Englishman, and the name does not, 
and can not be made to apply to you here, and you can not 
understand, therefore, the force of its application from one 
American to another I He called me a tory > denounced, le- 
hed, and struck at me, and I Avould have slain him — ay, eAmn 
in the halls which are henceforward to call me master — but 
that I Avasheld back by others, Avhose prudence, perhaps, saved 
the lives of both of us; for the strife woidd have been pell-meii, 
and that fellow Witherspoon, Avho was the overseer of old 
Mellichampe, had a draAvn knife ready over my shoulder, at 
the moment that mine was lifted at the breast of the insolent 
youngster. But this is a long story, and you already krow it. 


TIIK TORY SQUAD. 


51 


I have been revenged on the father, and have my debt against 
tlie son.' That shall be cancelled also, in due course of 
time.” 

“ And where is the youngster now, Barsfield 1 Have you any 
knowledge of his movements'?” 

“None. His mother has fled to the Santee, where she is 
sheltered by Watson. But of the son I know nothing. He 
is not with her, that’s certain ; for Evans, whom I sent off in 
that direction as a sort of scout and watch over her, reports 
that he has not yet made his appearance.” 

“ He must be out with Marion, then ?” was the suggestion 
of the other. 

‘We shall soon see that, for our loyalists are all ready and 
earnest for a drive after the ‘ fox and it will be a close swamp 
that will keep him away from hunters such as ours. These 
arms will provide two hundred of them, and we have full that 
number ready to volunteer. In a week more I hope to give a 
good account of his den, and all in it.” 

While this dialogue Avas going on, the speakers continued 
to approach the spot where Thumbscrew lay in hiding. It 
was not long, as they drew nigh, before he distinguished the 
person of Barsfield, and a fierce emotion kindled in his eye as 
he looked out from his shelter upon the advancing figure of the 
successful tory. His whole frame seemed agitated with the 
quickening rush of the warm blood through his veins — his 
teeth Avere gnashed for a moment fiercely, and, freeing a way 
through the bushes for his rifle-muzzle, in the first gush of his 
excited feelings, he lifted the deadly weapon to his eye, 
brought back the cock with t^ie utmost precaution, avoiding 
any unnecessary click, and prepared to plant the fatal bullet 
in the head of the unconscious victim. But the tory rode by 
unharmed. A gentler, or, at least, a more prudent feeling, 
got the better of the woodman’s momentary mood of passion ; 
and, letting the Aveapon fall quietly into the holloAv of his arm, 
he muttered in a low tone to himself — 

“ Not yet, not yet — let him pass — let him git on as he can. 
It ain’t time yet — he must have a little more SAving for it be- 
fore I bring him, for ’tain’t God’s pleasure that I should drop 


52 


MKLLICHAMPE. 


liitn HOW. I don’t feel like it, and so I know it can't be right 
It’s a cold-blooded thing, and looks too much like murder ; 
and, God help me, it ain’t come to that yet, for Jack Wither- 
spo-on to take it out of his enemy’s hide without giving him 
fair play for it. Let him go — let him go. Ride on, Barsfield ; 
the bullet’s to be run yet that bothers you.” 

And, thus muttering to himself, the woodman beheld his 
victim pass by him in safety, his troop and wagons following. 
He was about to turn away and seek his comrade in the wood, 
when he saw his travelling acquaintance, Blonay, emerge 
from the opposite quarter, and place himself before the British 
officers. This movement at once satisfied the doubts of Thumb 
screw as to the politics of the low-countiyman. 

“ As I thought,” said he to himself, the fellow’s a skunk, 
and a monstrous sly one. He knows how to badger, and can 
beat the bush like a true scout. It’s a God’s pity that a fel- 
low that has good qualities like that, shouldn’t have soul 
enough to be an honest man. But no matter — pay-day will 
come for all ; and Truth will have to wait in the swamp till 
Cunning can go help her out.” 

Thus moralizing, the woodman went back from his hiding- 
place, and soon joined his now impatient companion. 

Blonay, in the meanwhile, had made the acquaintance of 
the British party. Confirmed by their uniform, he boldly ad- 
vanced, and presented himself before the captain. 

“ Who the devil are you 1” was the uncourteous salutation. 

A grin and a bow, with a few mumbled words, was the sort 
of reply manifested by the half-breed, who followed up this 
overture by the presentation of the passport furnished by Proc 
tor. Barsfield read the scroll, and threw it back to him. 

“ And so you are going our way, I see by your paper. It is 
well — you will prefer, then, falling in with us, and taking our 
protection 1” 

Blonay bowed assent, and muttered his acknowledgments. 

“ And, perhaps,” continued the tory captain, “ as you are a 
true friend to his majesty’s cause, you will not object to a 
drive into the swamps along with us after these men of Marion, 
who are thought to be lurking about here ?” 


THE TORY SQUAD. 


53 


Tlie half-breed gave his ready assurance of a perfect will- 
ingness to do so. 

'‘Well said, my friend ; and now tell ns, Mr. Blonay, what 
have been yonr adventures upon the road? What have yor, 
seen deseiwing of attention since you came into this neighbor 
l)ood]^^ 

The person addressed did not fail to relate all the particu- 
ars of his meeting, but a little before, with the woodman, as 
the reader has already witnessed it. Barsfield listened with 
some show of attention, and only interrupted the narrator to 
ask for a description of the stranger’s person. This was given, 
and had the effect of producing an expression of earnest thought 
in th^ countenance of the listener. 

“Very large, you say — broad about the shoulders? And 
you say he went into this wood ?” 

“Off there, cappin, close on to them bays, and in them 
hushes ?” 

Barsfield looked over int'' the ';hick-set and seemingly 
impervious forsof, and sav.'- at a glance how doubtful and 
difficult wo*.ild be the pursuit, in sueh a place, even were 
the object imncrtant. of a single man. After a momentary 
pause of action and speech, he gave orders suddenly to move 
on in the path they were puisuing. Taking the direction of 
his finger, Blonay fell heh’nd- and Traa soon mingled in with 
the party that followed. 

“You shall see, my fair neighbor,” saia the tory captain to 
his companion, Avher. the party resume 1 its progress, as if in 
continuation of the previous discourse ; “ she is as beautiful and 
young, Clayton, as she is pure and intellectual. She is the prize, 
dearer and richer than all of my previous attainment, for 
which I would freely sacrifice them all. Ton shall see her, and 
swear to what I have said.” 

“ You will make her your own soon, then, T imagine,” said 
the other, “ esteeming her so highly.” 

“If I can — be sure of it,” responded Barsfield. “I will 
try devilish har^ for it, I assure you ; and it will be devilish 
hard, indeed, if, with a fine plantation, and no little power — 
with a person which, though not superb, is at least passable” 


54 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


— and the speaker looked down upon liis own bulky frame 
with some complacency — “ it will be devilish hard, I say, if I 
do not try successfully. Her old father, too, will back me to 
the utmost, for he is devilish scary, and, being a good loyalist, 
is very anxious to have a son-in-law who can protect his 
cattle from the men of Marion. They have half frightened 
him already into consent, and have thus done me much more 
service than they ever intended.” 

“ But your maiden herself, the party chiefly concerned 
said Clayton, inquiringly. 

“ She fights shy, and does not seem over-earnest to listen to 
my courtier speeches; but she is neither stern nor unapproach- 
able, and, when she replies to me, it is always gently and 
sweetly.” 

“ Then she is safe, be sure of it,” was the sanguine response 
^ of the other. 

“ Not so,” said the more cagacious Barsfield, “ not so. I 
am not so well sadsfied that because she is gentle she will be 
yielding. She can not be otherwise than gentle — she can not 
speak otherwise than sweetly, even though her words be those 
of denial. I would rather a cursed sight that she should wince 
a little, and tremble when I talk to her ; for then I should 
know that she was moved with an interest one way or the 
other. Your cool, composed sort of woman, is not to be sur- 
prised into any foolish weakness. They must listen long, and 
like to listen, before you can do anything with them. But you 
shall see her soon, for here her father’s fields commence. A 
fine clearing, you see, and the old buck is tolerably well off ~ 
works some eighty hands, and has a stock that would fit out a 
dozen Scotch graziers.” 

Thus discussing the hopes and expectations which make 
the aim and being of the dissolute adventurer, they pricked 
their way onward with all speed, to the dwelling of those who 
weri to be the anticipated victims. 


thp: plot thickens. 


65 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE PLOT THICKENS. 

Slowly, and with an expression of sorrow in his connie- 
nance, corresponding with the mielastic and measured move- 
ment of his body, Thumbscrew took his way back to the hollow 
v/bere he had left his more youthful companion. 

** Well, what nave you seen to keep you so long, Thumb- 
screw P’ was the impatient inquiry of the youth. The answer 
of the Avoodman to this interrogatory was hesitatingly uttered, 
ai'.d he first deliberately told of his encounter .with Blonay, and 
the nature of the unsatisfactory dialogue which had taken 
place between them. He dwelt upon the cunning with which 
the other had kept his secret during the conference ; “ but I 
found him out at last,” said he, “ and now I knows him to be 
a skunk — a reg’lar built tory, as I mought ha’ known from the 
first iiToment I laid eyes on him.” 

“Well — and Avhere is he now, and how did you discover 
thisl” Avas the inquiry of the other. 

This inquiry necessarily up^blded the intelligence concern- 
ing the troop of horse, Avhose nupiber, wagons, and equipments, 
he gave with all the circumspectness and fidelity of an able 
scout; and this done, he Avas silent ; with the air, however, of 
one Avho has yet something to unfold. 

“But who commanded them. Thumbscrew 1” asked the other, 
“ and Avhat appeared to be their object? You are strangely 
limited in your intelligence, and, at this rate, will hardly 
justify the eulogy of Majgr Singleton, who considers you th^J 
very best scout in the brigade. Can you tell us nothing more '^ 
What sort of captain had they ?” 


56 


MKLLICH^MPE. 


** A stout fellow, quite as broad, but not so tall as me, with 
a skin brown, like mine, as a berry ; a hook nose, and a mouth 
more like the chop of a broad-axe than anything else.” 

lie paused, and the eyes of the scout and those of his 
young comrade met. There was a quickening apprehension 
of the truth in those of Mellichampe, which made them kindle 
with successive flashes, while his mouth, partaking of the same 
influence, quivered convulsively, aS; bending forward to his 
more sedate companion, he demanded, with a stern, brief 
manner — 

“ You are not speaking of Barsfield, surely?” 

“I am --that’s the critter, or I’m no Christian.” 

The youth seized his rifle as he replied — “And ycu shot 
him not down ! you suffered him to pass you in safety ! my 
father’s blood yet upon his hands — unavenged — and he going 
now, doubtless, to reap the reward of his crime and pei-fidy ! 
But he can not have gone far. He must be yet within reach, 
and, by the Eternal ! he shall not escape me now. Hold me 
not back. Thumbscrew — hold me not back ! I deem you no 
friend of mine that suffered the wretch to pass on in safety, 
and I shall deem you still less my friend if you labor to re- 
strain me now. Hold me not, I tell you, Witherspoon, or it 
will be worse for you.” 

The youth, as he spoke, leaped upon his feet in a convulsion 
of passion, that seemed to set at defiance all restraint. His 
eyes, that before had sent forth only irregular flashes of light 
and impulse, were now fixed in a steady, unmitigated flame, 
that underwent no change. Not, so his lips, which quivered 
and paled more fitfully than ever. He strove earnestly with 
his strong-limbed comrade, who had grasped him firmly with 
the first ebullition of that passion which he seemed to have 
anticipated. 

“ What would you do, Airnest ? don’t be foolish now, I beg 
you ; running your head agin a pine knot that you can’t swal- 
low. It’s all foolishness to go on so, and can do no good. As 
to shooting that skunk, I couldn’t and wouldn’t do it, though 
I had the muzzle up, and it was a sore temptation, Aii^iest j 
for I remembered the old man, and his white hair, ai>4 if 4 tood 


THE PLOT THICKENS. 57 

before my eyes jist like a picture, as I seed it last when it 
was thickened together Avith liis own blood.” 

“ Yet you could remember all this, and suffer his murderer 
to escape reiterated the other. 

“ Yes! for it goes agin the natur of an honest man to bite a 
man with cold bullet, Avhen the t’other a’n’t on his guard agin 
it. I’ll take a shot any day with Barsfield, man to man, or 
Avhere a fight’s going on with a hundred, but, by dogs ! I can’t 
lie at the roadside, under a sapling, and send a bullet at him 
onawares, as he’s riding down the trace. It’s an Injeu way, 
and it’s jist as bad as any murder I’ve ever beam tell of their 
doing. No, no, Airnest; there’s a time coming 1 as I may say, 
the day of judging them’s at hand ; for here, you see, is tliis 
chap, going down now, snug and easy, Avitli a small handful 
of troops, to take possession of Kaddipah. Let him set down 
quietly till the ‘ fox’ gets up his men, and I’ll lay you what you 
please Ave git our satisfaction out of him by fair fight. We’ll 
smoke him out of his hole ’fore Sunday next, if I’m not mon- 
strous wide in my calkilation.” 

“ And where is* the difference between shooting him noAv 
and shooting him then % I see none. Release me, Mr. With- 
erspoon,” cried the other, his anger now beginning to turn 
upon the tenacious Thumbscrew, who held upon his body with 
a grasp that set at defiance all his efforts. In the next moment 
he was released, as he had desired, and, with a deference of 
manner, a subdued and even sadder visage, the countryman 
addressed the youth : — 

“ You’re gitting into a mighty passion, Airnest, and, what’s 
worse, you’re gitting in a passion Avith me, that was your friend 
and your father’s friend, ever since I know’d you both, though, 
to be sure, I never could do much for either of you in the way 
of friendship.” 

I am not angry with you, Witherspoon ; only, I am no 
child, to be restrained after this fashion. I know you are my 
friend, and God knoAvs I have too few now to desire the loss of 
any one of them — and particularly of one Avho, like yourself, 
has clung to me in all trials ; but there is a certain boundary 
beyond which one’s best friend has no right to go.” 


58 


MKLL>CHAMPE. 


“ Oil, yes ! I understand all tliat, Airnest. I’m your friend 
so long as I don’t think of act contrary to your thinking and 
acting. Now, to my thinking, that’s a bargain that will only 
answer for one side, and I never yet made a bargain in my 
life under them sort of tarms. If I sells a horse or buys one, 
I does it because I thinks there’ll be some sort of benefit or 
gain to myself. I don’t want to take ondue advantage of the 
other man, but I expects to git as good as I gives. That’s the 
trade for me ; whether it be a horse that I trades, or my 
good word and the heart, rough or gentle, all the same, that 
I bring to barter with my friend. When I makes sich a trade, 
I can’t stand and see the man I trade with making light of 
the article I gives him. If it’s my friendship and good word, 
he mustn’t make them a sort of plaything, to sport which way 
he pleases ; and, so long as I say I’m his friend, he sha’n’t 
butt a tree if I can keep his head from it, though I have to 
take main force to hold him in. On them same tarms, Air- 
nest, I stood by the old ’squire, your father, when he got 
into difficulties about the line of his land with Hitchingham ; 
when the two got all their friends together, and fout, as one 
may say, like so many tiger-cats, along the rice-dam, for two 
long hours by sun. You’ve beam tell of that excursion, I’m 
thinking. That was a hard brush, and I didn’t skulk like a 
skunk then, as they will all tell you that seed it. But that 
worn’t the only time; there was others, more than a dozen beside 
that, and all jist as tough, when Thumbscrew hung on to the 
’squire, as if he was two other legs and arms of the same body, 
and nobody could touch the^one without touching the other. 
Then came that scrape with Barsfield ; and now I tell you, 
Airnest, it worn’t a murder, as you calls it, but a fair fight, 
for both the parties was fairly out ; and, though the old 
’squire, your father, was surprised, and not on his proper 
guard, yet it was a fair-play fight, and sich as comes about, as 
I may say, naturally, in all our skriniinages with the tories. 
They licked us soundly, to be sure, ’cause they had the most 
men ; but we font ’em to the last, and ’twas a fair fight from 
the jump ” 


THE I LOT THICKENS. 


51 ) 


“ And what of all this, now — why do you repeat this to me 
here?’’ said the other, with no little imperiousness. 

“ Why, you see, only to show you, Airnest, as a sort of ex- 
cuse and apology for what I did in trying to keep you from 
going after Barsfield — ” 

“Apology, Witherspoon!” exclaimed the other. 

“Yes, Airnest, apology — that’s the very word I makes use 
of. I jist wanted to show you the reason why I tuk the lib- 
erty of trying to keep an old friend’s son out of harm’s way, 
that’s all. I promise you, Airnest, I won’t make you angry 
agin, though I don’t see yet the harm of liking a body so much 
as to do the best for ’em.” 

The woodman turned away as he spoke, lifted his rifle, and 
seemed busy in rubbing the stock of it with the sleeve of his 
hunting-shirt. The youth seemed touched by. this simple ex- 
hortation. Without a word he approached his unsophisticated 
companion, whose face was turned from him, and placing his 
hand affectionately, with a gentle pressure, upon his shoulder, 
thus addressed him : — 

“ Forgive me, Jack — I was wrong. Forgive me, and forget 
it. I am rash, foolish, obstinate — it’s my fault, I know, to be 
so, and I try to control my disposition, always, when I’m with 
you. You know I would’nt hurt your feelings for the world. 
I know you love me. Jack, as if I were your own brother ; and 
believe me, my old friend — my father’s friend — believe me, 
I love you fully as much. Say, now, that you forgive me — 
do say I” 

“ Dang my eyes ! Airnest, but, by the powers ! you put it 
to me too hard sometimes. Jist when I’m doing the best, or 
trying to do the best, you plump head over heels into my teeth, 
and I’m forced to swallow my own doings. It a’n’t right — it 
a’n’t kind of you, Airnest ; and, dang it, boy, I don’t see wby 
I should keep trying to do for you, to git no thanks, and little 
better than curses for it. I’m sure I gits nothing by sticking 
to you through thick and thin.” 

Half relenting, and prefacing his yielding mood only by this 
outward coating of obduracy, the woodman thus received the 
overtures of his companion, who was as ready to melt wito 


60 


mklmchampp:. 


generous emotion as lie was to seek for strife under a fierce 
and impetuous one. The youth half turned away as the lattei 
reply met his ears, and, removing his hand from the shoulder 
where it had rested, with a freezing tone and proud manner, 
he replied, while appearing to withdraw — 

“It is indeed time, Mr. Witherspoon, that company should 
part, when one reproaches the other with his poverty. You 
certainly have said truly, that you have nothing to gain by 
clinging to me and mine.” 

“Oh, Airnest, boy — but that’s too much,” he cried, leaping 
round and seizing the youth’s hands, while he pressed his 
eyes, now freely suffused, down upon them. “I didn’t mean 
that, Airnest, I’m all over foolish to-day, and done nothing but 
harm. It was so from morning’s first jump ; I’ve been fooling 
and blundering .like a squalling hen in an old woman’s cup- 
board. Push me on one side, I’m sure to plump clear to the 
other end, break all the cups and dishes, and fly in the old 
wife’s face, before I can git out. It’s your turn to forgive me, 
Airnest, and don’t say that we must cut each other. God help 
me, Airnest, if I was to dream of sich a thing, I’m sure your 
father’s sperrit would haunt me, with bis white hair sticking 
all fast with blood, and — ” 

“ No more. Jack, old fellow, let us talk no more of that, but 
sit down here, and say what we are to do now about that rep- 
tile, Barsfield.” 

“ Bless you, Airnest, what can we do till the ‘ fox’ whistles ? 
We’ll have news for him to-morrow, and must only see where 
Barsfield goes to-night, and larn what we can of what he’s 
going to do. I suspect that them wagons have got a plenty 
of guns and bagnets, shot and powder for the tories; and if so, 
there’ll be a gathering of them mighty soon in this neighbor- 
hood. We shall see some of the boys to-morrow — Humphries 
and ‘ Roaring Dick’ ride on this range, and we may hear their 
whistle in the ‘Bear Brake’ before -morning.” 

“We must meet them there, then, one or other of us certainly. 
In the meantime, as you say, we must trail this Barsfield 
closely, and look where he sleeps, since you will not let 
shoot him.” 


me 


THE l‘L<»T TlirUKENS. 


61 


“And wliere/s tlie use? I could lia’ put tlie bullet tlirougli 
his skull to-day, but the next luoiueut the dragoons would have 
made small work of a large man. They’d ha’ chopped me 
into miuce-meat. There’s no difficulty in killing one, hut small 
chance to git aAvay after it, when there’s so many of them upon 
you; and, as I said afore, this shooting a man from the hush 
onawares, when he’s travelling in quiet, looks too much like 
cold-blooded Ingin murder. It’s like scalping and tomahawk. 
Give the enemy a fair field, says I, though it be but a how- 
legged nigger that’s running from you in the swamp.” 

And, thus conferring, the two followed the route pursued by 
Barsfield and his party, until the shades of evening gathered 
heavily around them. 


62 


MKLIJCIIAMPB. 


CHAPTER VII. 

PINEY GROVE, 

The British troopers, meanwhile, pursued their jouriitj^. 
With an humility that knew its place, Blonay followed with 
the hindmost, and showed no annoyance, though exposed to 
the continual and coarse jests of those about him. He was be- 
comingly indifferent, as he seemed perfectly insensible. The 
termination of the day’s journey was at length at hand. ■ The 
zigzag fences rose upon both sides of the road. The negro 
settlement, some thirty or forty log-dwellings, forming a square 
to themselves, and each with its little enclosure, well stocked 
with pigs, poultry, and the. like, came in sight; and beyond, 
the eager eye of Barsfield distinguished, while his hand pointed 
out to his companion, the fine old avenue, long, overgrown, and 
beautifully winding, which led to the mansion-house of the 
Berkeley family. 

‘'There,” said he, “is ‘Piney Grove’ — such is the name of 
the estate; a name whic:*. it p,.<;^.erly takes from the avenue 
which leads to it, the chief growth of which, as you will see, 
is the field-pine. You will not see many like it in the country.” 

The troop halted at the entrance, which was soon thrown 
open ; and, narrowing the form of their advance, they were in 
a moment after hurrying along the shady passage which led 
to the hospitable dwelling. Barsfield had said rightly to his 
companion : there were not many avenues in the country like 
that which they now pursued. A beautiful and popular fea- 
ture, generally, in all the old country- estates of Carolina, the 
avenue in question was yet of peculiar design. In the lower 
regions, where the spreading and ponderous live-oak presents 


PINKY GROVE. 


63 


itself vigorously and freely, and seems by its magnificence and 
shade expressly intended for such a purpose, no other sort of 
tree can well be employed. Here, however, in the region 
which we now tread, wanting in that patriarchal tree, the field- 
pine had been chosen as the substitute, and nothing sjrely 
could have been more truly beautiful than the one in question. 
A waving and double line, larried on in sweeping and curious 
windings for two thirds of a mile, described by these trim and 
tidy trees, enclosed the party, and formed a barrier on either 
hand, over which no obtrusive vine or misplaced scion of some 
foreign stock was ever permitted to gad or wander. Some 
idea may be formed of the pains and care which had^ been 
take~i ir. thus bending the free forests in subservience to the 
will of man, when we know that, though naturally a hardy 
tx’ee of the most vigorous growth, the pine is yet not readily 
transplanted with success, and is so exceedingly sensitive in a 
strange place, as in half the number of instances to perish from 
such a transfer. ..jl narrow but deep ditch formed an inner 
parallel line Avith the high trees along the avenue ; and the 
earth, thus thrown up into a bank beneath the trees, gave ample 
room and nutriment to a crowded hedge of greenbrier and gath- 
ering vines, interspersed, during a long season, with a thousand 
various and beautiful flowers. 

Emerging from the avenue, the vista opened upon a lovely 
park, which spread away upon either }i*,nd ar.d was tastefully 
sprinkled here and there, singly and in groups, with a fine col- 
lection of massive and commanding ^s,tei-oaks, from around 
the base of which everything in the guise cf shrubbery anl 
undergrowth, the thick, long grass excepted, had been care 
fully pruned away. A few young horses were permitted to 
ramble about and crop the verdure on one side of the entrance, 
while on the other a little knot of ruminating milch-cows, to 
Avhich a like privilege had been given, started up in alarm, 
and fled at the approach of strangers so numerous and so gor- 
geously arrayed. Throwing aside- the heavy, swinging gate 
before them, the troopers passed through a trace leading for- 
ward directly to the dwelling. On either side of this passage 
a fence of light scantling, Avhith had cnce been whitewashed, 


64 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


proved a barrier against any trespass of the cattle upon a prov 
ince not their own. 

The dwelling of Mr. Berkeley lay centrally before this pas- 
sage, and at a little distance in the rear of the park. It was 
an ancient mansion, of huge and clumsy brick, square and 
heavy in its design, though evidently well constructed. It was 
built about the time of the Yemassee war, after the fashion of 
that period, and was meant to answer the purposes of a fortress 
against the savage, not less than a dwelling for the civilized 
man. On one occasion the Edistohs had besieged it with a 
force of nearly two hundred warriors ; but the stout planter 
who held it at the time, old Marmaduke Berkeley, Mdtli the aid 
of his neighbors, and a few trusty Irish workmen, ^/ho had 
been employed upon the estate, made a sturdy defence, until 
the friendly Indians, who were the allioS of the whites, and, 
consequently, foes to the Edistohs, came to their relief, and 
beat off the invaders. The external aspect of the edifice bore 
sufficient testimony of its antiquity. ?.^he bricks were dark 
and mouldy in appearance, and the walls in several peaces had 
begun to crumble and crack beneath their own c':inbrousness 
Clambering parasites on the northern side had ran at liberty 
over its surface, still holding on, even in corresponding ruin, 
when half withered and sapless themselves. Little tufts of 
dank moss protruded her-: and there from dusty apertures ; and 
a close eye might even find an insidious and lurking decay 
thriving fast in the yielding frame which sustained this or that 
creaking shutter. The mansion attested, not merely its own, 
but the decline of its proprietor. A man of energy, character, 
and due reflection, would i.ave found little difficulty in main- 
taining a resolute and successful defence against the bold as- 
sault of the tempest, or the insidious gnawings and sappings 
of time. The present owner, unhappily, was not this sort of 
man. He was prematurely old, as he had been constitution- 
ally timid and habitually nervous. His life, so far, had passed 
in a feverish and trembling indecision, which defeated all 
steady thought and prompt action. He was one of those wlio, 
having the essentials of manhood, has yet always been a child 
Ke had tottered through life witli no confidence in his arms 


PINET GROVEL 


65 


and as if his legs had been crutches, borrowed from a neigh- 
boring tree, rather than limbs of a native growth, and destined 
to the performance of his will. Gladly, at all times, would he 
prefer to lean upon the shoulders of his neighbor rather than 
trust independently to his own thews and sinews. In politics 
he could be none other than the truckler to the existing au- 
thority, having preferences, however, which he dared not speak, 
vacillating between extremes, temporizing with every party, 
yet buffeted by all. 

The appearance of the troop brought the old gentleman 
down his steps to receive them Barslield only advanced, 
leaving Clayton to quarter the tro3p on the edge and within 
tlie enclosure of the park. Mr. Berkeley’s manner was cour- 
teous and cordial enough, but marked by trepidation. His 
welcome, however, was unconstrained, and seemed habitual. 
Like the major part of the class of which he was a member, 
the duties of hospitality never Buffered neglect at his hands. 
Like them, he delighted ij. society, and was at all times 
ready and pleased at the appearance of a guest. Nor did the 
perilous nature of events at the period of which we write, his 
own timidity, and the doubtful character of the new-comer, 
tend, in any great degree, to chill the freedom and ch'eck the 
tendency of his habit in this respect. Accustomed always to 
wealth and influence, to the familiar association with strangers, 
and to a free intercourse with a once thickly-settled and pleas- 
ant neighborhood, a frank, open-hearted demeanor became as 
much his characteristic as his jealous apprehensions. This was 
also his misfortune, since, without doubt, it increased the natu- 
ral dependence of his mind. The habit of giving a due con- 
sideration to the claims of others, though a good one, doubtless, 
has yet its limits, which to pass, though for a moment only, is 
to stimulate injustice, and to encourage the growth of a tyranny 
to our own injury. In his connection with those around him, 
and at the period of wliich we write, when laws were nominal, 
and were administered only at the caprice of power, tlie virtue 
of Mr. Berkeley became a weakness ; and lie was accordingly 
preyed upop by the profligate, and defied by tlie daring — 
compelled to be silent under wrong, or, if he resented it, only 


66 


MELLICHAMPE. 


provoking thereby its frequent repetition. His mild blue eye 
spoke his feelings ; his nervousness amply announced his own 
consciousness of imbecility ; while his pale cheek and prema- 
turely white hair told of afflictions deeply felt, and of vexing 
and frequent strifes, injuries, and discontent. 

On the present occasion he received his guest with a kindly 
air of welcome, which was most probably sincere. He was 
quite too feeble not to be glad of the presence of those who 
could afiPord him protection ; and there was no little truth in 
the boast of the tory captain to his companion, when he said 
that the timidity of Berkeley would be one of the probable 
influences which might facilitate his progress in the courtship 
of his daughter. The manner of Barsfield was influenced 
somewhat by his knowledge of the weakness of Mr. Berkeley, 
not less than by his own habitual audacity. He met the old 
gentleman with an air of ancient intimacy, grasped the prof- 
fered hand with a hearty and confident action, and, in tones 
rather louder than ordinary, congratulated him upon his health 
and good looks. 

“ I have not waited, you see, Mr. Berkeley, for an invita- 
tion. I have ridden in and taken possession without a word, 
as if I Was perfectly assured that no visiter could be more cer- 
tainly welcome to a good loyalist like yourself, than one who 
was in arms for his majesty.” 

“None, sir — none. Captain Barsfield — you do me nothing 
more than justice. You are welcome — his majesty’s officers 
and troops are always welcome to my poor dwelling,” was the 
reply of the old man, uttered without restraint, and seemingly 
with cordiality ; and yet, a close observer might have seen 
that there was an air of abstraction indicative of a wandering 
and dissatisfied mood, in the disturbed and changing expres- 
sion of his features. A. few moments elapsed, which they em- 
ployed in mutual inquiries, when Lieutenant Clayton, having 
bestowed his men, their baggage, and wagons, agreeably to the 
directions given him, now joined them upon the steps of the 
dwelling, and was introduced by Barsfield, in character, to his 
host. Clayton reported to his captain what he had done with 
the troop, their disposition, and the general plan of their 


riNEY GROVE. 


67 


arrangement, in obedience to orders ; turning to Mr. Berkeley 
at tlie conclusion, and politely apologizing for the unavoidable 
disturbance which such an arrangement must necessarily oc- 
casion in his grounds. The old man smiled faintly, and mur- 
mured out Avords of approbation ; butj though he strove to be 
and to appear satisfied, he was evidently ill at ease. The in- 
vasion of his beautiful park by a prancing and wheeling troop 
of horse — its quiet broken by the oaths, the clamor, and the 
confusion common to turbulent soldiers, and the utter disper- 
sion of his fine young horses, which had leaped the barrier in 
their fright, and were now flying in all directions over the 
plantation, brought to his bosom no small pang, as they spoke 
strongly for the extent of his submission. He controlled his 
dissatisfaction, however, as well as he could, and now urged 
his guests, with frequent entreaties, to enter his mansion for 
refreshment. They followed him from the piazza into a large 
hall, such as might have answered the purposes of a room of 
state, calculated for the deliberations of a thousand men. It 
was thus that our ancestors built, as it were, with a standard 
drawn from the spacious wilds and woods around them. They 
seemed also to have built for posterity. Huge beams, unen- 
closed, ran along above, supporting the upper chambers, which 
were huge enough to sustain the weight of a palace. The 
walls were covered with the dark and durable cypress, wrought 
in panels, which gave a rich, artist-like air to the apartment. 
Two huge fireplaces at opposite ends of the hall attested its 
gi-eat size, in one of which, even in the month cf September, a 
few broken brands might be seen still burning upon the hearth. 
A dozen faded family pictures, in massive black frames, hung 
around — quaint, rigid, puritanical faces, seemingly cut out of 
board, after the fashion of Sir Peter Lely, with glaring Flem- 
ish drapery, and that vulgar style of coloring which makes of 
red and yellow primary principles, from the contagion of which 
neither land, sea, nor sky, is sujBPered in any climate to be prop- 
erly exempt. The furniture was heavy and massive like the 
rest — suitable to the apartment, and solid, like the dwellings 
and desires of the people of the bygone days. 

Seats were drawn, the troopers at ease, and the good old 


68 


MPJLLICHAMPE. 


Madeira of the planter soon made its appearance, to which 
they did ample justice. The generous liquor soon produced 
freedom of discourse ; and, after a few courteous and usual 
overtures, consisting of mutual inquiries after the health of the 
several parties present, their relations, friends, and so forth, 
the conversation grew more general, and, perhaps, more impor- 
tant, as it touched upon the condition of the country. 

“ You have quiet now, Mr. Perkeley,” said Barsfield. “ The 
rousing defeats which the rebels have recently sustained have 
pretty well done them up on every side. The game is very 
nigh over, and we shall soon have little else to do than gather 
up the winnings. The drubbing which Cornwallis gave that 
conceited fellow. Gates, and the surprise of Sumter, both events 
60 complete and conclusive, will go very far toward bringing 
the country back to its loyalty.” 

God grant it, sir,” was the ardent response of Mr. Berke- 
ley, “ for we shall then have peace. These have been four 
miserable years to the country, since the beginning of this 
war. Neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend, and 
sometimes even brother arming and going out to battle with 
his brother. It has been an awful time, and Heaven grant, sir, 
it may be as you say. Heaven restore us the quiet and the 
peace which have been for so long strangers in the land.” 

You shall have it, sir, I promise you, after this ; though 1 
should think, by this time, you have been perfectly freed from 
the incursions of that skulking fellow, Marion. The report is 
that he has disbanded his men, and has fled into North Caro-' 
lina. If so, I shall have little use for mine ; and these arms 
which I have brought for distribution among your loyal neigh- 
bors, will scarcely be necessary to them. Have you any in- 
telligence on this subject, Mr. Berkeley 1” 

“No, sir — no, none! I am not in the way. Captain Bars- 
field, of hearing intelligence of this nature. I know nothing 
of the movements of either party.” 

This reply was uttered with some little trepidation ; and, 
as the old gentleman spoke, he looked apprehensively around 
the apartment, as if he dreaded to see the redoubtable “ swamp 
fox” and all his crew, “ Roaring Dick,” “ Thumbscrew,” and 


riNEY GROVE. 


69 


felie rest, fast gathering at his elbow. Barsfiehl smiled at the 
movement, and crossing one leg over another, and slapping 
his thigh with an air of unmitigated self-complaisance as he 
spoke, he thuS' replied, rather to the look and manner than 
the language of his host : — 

“ Well, sir, I hope soon to rid you of any apprehensions on 
the subject of that marauding rebel. I am about to become 
your near neighbor, Mr. Berkeley.** 

The old gentleman bowed in token of his satisfaction at the 
intelligence. Barsfield continued — 

“ You have heard, doubtlessly, that I am now the proprietor 
of the noble estate of ‘Kaddipah,* formerly the seat of Max 
Mellichampe, and confiscated to his majesty’s uses on account 
of that arch-traitor’s defection. Having had the good fortune 
to slay the rebel with my own hand his majesty has been 
pleased to bestow upon me the estate which be so justly for- 
feited.” 

There was some emotion of an equivocal sort visible in the 
countenance of Berkeley, as he listened tp this communication. 
A shade of melancholy overspread his face, as if some painful 
memory had suddenly grown active ; and a slight suffusion of 
his eyelashes was not entirely undistinguished by his guests. 
Struggling with his feelings, however, whatever may have 
been their source, the old man recovered himself sufficiently 
to reply, though in a thick voice, which left his language but 
half intelligible. 

“Yes — ^yes, sir — I did hear — I’m glad, sir — I shall be 
happy—” 

And here he paused in the imperfect speech which Barsfield 
did not leave him time to finish. 

“ There will be nothing then, sir, that any of us will have 
to fear from these outliers in the swamps; when that takes- 
place, ‘ Kaddipah,’ sir, so long as the war continues, will be 
a place of defence, sufficiently well-guarded as a post to resist 
any present force of Marion ; and, as I shall have charge of it, 
I think it safe to say, from what they know of me, they will 
not often venture even within scouting distance. Talking of 
scouts, now, Clayton, where’s the fellow we picked up to-day, 


TO 


MPJLLICIIAMPE. 


having a pass from Proctor ? He looks as if he would make 
an admirable one. If his eyes only see as far as they seem 
v/illing to go, he is certainly a very valuable acquisition. 

A distinct hem from another quarter of the hall attracted 
all eyes in that direction, and there, squat upon the hearth of 
one of the fireplaces, sat the form of Blonay. He had piled 
tlie dismembered brands together, and sat enjoying the fire, 
unperceived and certainly unenvied. At what time he had 
so secretly effected his entrance, was utterly unknown to any 
of the party. Barsfield started as ne beheld him, and, seeming 
to forget his host, hastily addressed him : — 

“ Why, how now, fellovr 1 you seem to make yourself at 
home. Why are you here 1 why did you not remain with the 
troop 

“ Why, cause I an’t one of them, you see, cappin, and they 
all pokes fun at me.” 

The simplicity of this reply iisarmed Barsfield of his anger, 
and his presence gave him a new subject upon which to enjoy 
himself. The half-breed was now made to undergo another 
examination, conducted by both the officers, who mingled freely 
with their inquiries sundry poor jests at his infirmity, all of 
which fell upon the seemingly sterile sense of the subject as 
if he had been so much marble. While thus engaged an inner 
door was thrown open, and the guests started involuntarily tc 
their feet. 

“ My daughter, gentlemen, Miss Berkeley — my niece. Miss 
Duncan,” were the words of the old man, uttered with an air 
of greater elevation than was his wont. The two ladies were 
provided with seats, and in the momentary silence which fol- 
lowed their first appearance, we may be permitted to take a 
passing glance at their persons. Oui opinions may well ba 
reserved for another chapter. 


JANET BERKELEY. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JANET BERKELEY. 

The appearance of Janet Berkeley fully justified the high 
encoraium which Barsfield had passed upon her beauties ; yet 
nothing could be more unassuming than her deportment — 
nothing more unimposing than her entire carriage. A quiet 
ease, a natural and seemingly effortless movement, placed her 
before you, and, like all perfect things, her loveliness was to be 
studied before it could be perceived. It did not affront you 
by an obtrusion of anything remarkable. Her features were 
all too much in unison with one another — too symmet- 
rically unique^ to strike abruptly ; they seemed rather to 
fill and to absorb the mind of the spectator than to strike 
his eye. 

Her person was rather small and slender : her features, 
though marked by health, were all soft and delicate. A pale, 
bigh forehead, from beneath which a pair of large black eyes 
flashed out a subdued, dewy, but rich, transparent light — a 
nose finely Grecian — cheeks rather loo pale, perhaps, for ex- 
])ression — and a mouth which was sweetly small and deli- 
cately full — were the distinguishing features of her face. 
Her chin, though not prominent, did not retreat ; and her neck 
was white and smoothly round, as if a nice artist had spent a 
life in working it to perfection. Her hair, which was long and 
dark, was gathered up and secured by a white fillet, without 
study, yet with a disposition of grace that seemed to denote 
the highest efforts of study. It was the art which concealed 
the art — the fine taste of the woman naturally employed in 
adorning the loveliest object in creation — herself. It was 
the fashion of the time to pile the hair in successive layers 


72 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


upon the crown, until it rose into a huge tower, Babel-like 
and toppling. Janet was superior to any such sacrifice of good 
sense and good taste, simply in compliance with a vulgar rage. 
Her long tresses, simply secured from annoyance, were left 
free to wander where they would about her neck, to the marble 
whiteness of which they proved an admirable foil ; while the 
volume was so distributed about the head as to prevent that 
uncouth exhibition of its hulk in one quarter, which is too 
much the sin of taste in the sex generally. So admirably 
did the features, the dress, and the deportment, of Janet 
Berkeley blend in their proper effects together, that the dullest 
sense must have felt their united force, even though the eye 
might not have paused to dwell upon any one individual 
beauty. Her carriage denoted a consciousness of her own 
strength, which spoke forcibly in contrast with the equally 
obvious feebleness of her father’s spirit. Perhaps, indeed, it 
was the imbecility and weakness of his which had given 
strength and character to hers. It is not uncommon for the 
good natural mind to exercise itself in those attributes which, 
in others, they perceive inactive and wanting to’ their owners. 
She had seen too many evil results from her father’s indecision 
and imbecility, not to strive sternly in the attainment of the 
faculty in which he was so lamentably deficient; and she had 
not striven in vain. Though yet unenforced to open exercise 
and exhibition of its strength by controlling and overcoming 
dangers, the heart of Janet Berkeley was strong in her, and 
would not have been unprepared for their encounter. Her 
untroubled composure of glance, her equanimity of manner, 
her ruishrinking address, and the singular ease with which, 
without tremor or hesitation, her parting lips gave way to the 
utterance of the language she might deem necessary to the 
occasion — were all so many proofs of that strength of soul 
which, associated as it was with all the grace and suscepti- 
bility of woman, made her a creature of moral, not less than 
of physical symmetry — the very ideal of a just conception 
of the noblest nature and the gentlest sex. The deportment 
of Mr. Berkeley was unconsciously elevated as he surveyed 
hers : such is the influence of the ])ure heart and perfect char* 


JANET BERKELEY. 


73 


acter. His pride grew lifted in the contemplation ; and, timid 
and tame, and without a manly spirit, as he was, he felt that 
he could willingly die to serve and to preserve her. 

** She is indeed a jewel, Barsfield said Clayton, in a whis- 
per, aside to his superior; “she is a jewel — you are a lucky 
man.” 

“A goddess!” was the quick reply, in similar tones — “a 
goddess! — she will make Kaddipah a very heaven in my 
sight.” 

“ Let it be a Christian heaven, then, I pray you, by dropping 
that abominable heathen name.” 

The other maiden, whom we have seen introduced as Miss 
Duncan, was an orphan, a niece of Mr. Berkeley, and for the 
present, residing with her cousin. She was pretty, and her 
eyes danced with a lively play of light, that spoke a gay 
lieart and cloudless disposition. Perhaps, at the first glance, 
she would have been found more imposing than Janet; there 
was more to strike the eye in her features and deportment, as 
there was more inequality — more that was irregular — none 
of that perfect symmetry, which so harmonizes with the ob- 
server’s glance and spirit, as not often to arrest, at first, his 
particular attention. A study of her face, however, would 
soon disenthral, though it would not offend, the observer. It 
wanted depth — profundity — character. At a glance you 
beheld its resources. There was nothing more to see ; and 
you would turn away to her more quiet companion, and find at 
every look, in every passiilg shade of expression, every tran- 
sition of mood, that there was more hidden than revealed — 
thattlie casket was rich within — that there was a treasure and 
a mystery, though it might demand a power of the purest and 
tlie highest to unlock its spells, and to remove the sacred seal 
that was upon it. 

A few moments had elapsed after the entrance of the ladies, 
when a servant announced the supper to be in readiness, after 
tlie wholesome fashion of the country. A table was spread in 
an adjoining apartment, and now awaited the guests. Barsfield 
would have offered his arm to Janet, but she had already pos- 
sessed herself of her father’s. Lieutenant Clayton had already 

4 


74 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


secured the company of Miss Duncan ; and they were soon 
seated round the hospitable board. But where was Blonay — 
the despised — the deformed — the desolate? Miss Berkeley, 
presiding at the head of the table, remarked his absence, and 
her eye at once addressed her father. 

“ The other gentleman, father ?” she said inquiringly. 

“ Gentleman, indeed !” was the exclamation of Barsfield, ac- 
companied by a rude laugh, which was slightly echoed by his 
companions ; “ Gentleman, indeed ! give yourself no manner of 
concern on his account, Miss Berkeley. He is some miserable 
overseer — a sand-lapper from Goose Creek, of whom we know 
nothing, except that Proctor, the commandant at Dorchester, 
has thought proper to give him a passport to go where he 
pleases.” 

“He is my father’s guest, sir,” was the dignified and rebu- 
king reply ; “ and we can take no exception to his poverty, or 
his occupation, or the place from which he comes. We have 
not heretofore been accustomed to do so, and it would be far 
less than good policy now, when the vicissitudes of the times 
are such, that even a person such as you describe him to be 
may become not only our neighbor but our superior, to-mor- 
row.” 

Mr. Berkeley started from his chair in some little confusion. 
He felt the truth of what his daughter said, yet he saw that 
her speech had touched Barsfield to the quick. The red spot 
was on the cheek of the tory, and his lips quivered for an in- 
stant. 

“ J.anet is right, Captain Barsfield ; the hospitality of Piney 
Grove must not be impeached. Its doors must be open to the 
poor as well as the rich ; we can not discriminate between 
them and, so speaking, he hurried out to look after the half- 
breed. He had not far to look. To the great surprise of the 
old man, he found Blonay a listener at the door of the apart- 
ment. He must have heard every syllable that had been 
spoken. He had been practising after his Indian nature, and 
was not sensible of any impropriety in the act. Revolting at 
the task before him, Mr. Berkeley, with as good a grace as pos- 
sible, invited the scout into the apartment — an invitation 


JANET BERKELEY. 


75 


accepted without scruple, and as soon as given ; and he sidled 
into a seat, much to the annoyance of Barsfield, directly in 
front of him. This little occurrence did not take place with- 
out greatly disquieting the host. He saw that Barsfield felt 
the force of the sarcasm which his daughter had uttered, and 
he strove, by the most unwearied attentions on his own part, 
to do away with all unpleasant feelings on the part of the tory 
captain. Janet, however, exhibited no manner of change in 
her deportment. She did not seem conscious of any departure 
from prudence, as she certainly had been guilty of no depar- 
ture from propriety ; but, when she saw the indefatigable and 
humiliating industry, with which her father strove to conciliate 
a man whom she had good reason to despise as well as hate, 
the warm color stole into her cheeks with a flash-like indigna- 
tion, and her upper lip took its expression from the bitter scorn 
in her bosom, and curled into very haughtiness as she surveyed 
the scene. The expression passed away in an instant, how- 
ever ; and when, a little more composed himself, Barsfield 
ventured to cast a sidelong glance at the maiden, and saw 
how subdued, how gentle, how utterly wanting in malignity, 
were her features, he dismissed from his mind the thought that 
v/hat she had said, so directly applying as it did to himself — 
he having sprung from the dregs of the people, and such 
having been his fortunes — was intended for any such appli- 
cation. 

The angry scowl with which the tory might have regarded 
the maiden, was turned, however, upon the half-breed ; who, 
as he beheld its threatening expression, would have been glad 
to have taken to his heels, and to have hidden his disquiet in 
the surrounding woods. But the kind look of Janet reassured 
him, and he turned his frightful and blear eyes in no other 
direction. His mind, probably for the first time, seemed to 
take in a new sentiment of the loveliness of virtue. Though 
blear-eyed, he was not blind ; and, as she did not seem to 
behold his deformity, he was able to examine her beauty. In 
morals, the German theory of the senses is more than half 
right. The odor and the color are in us, rather than in the 
objects of our survey ; and yet, unless acted upon by external 


76 


MELLICITAMPE. 


influences, the latent capacity might never expand into energy 
and consciousness. To bring out this capacity is the office of 
education, and this art had never so far acted upon the half- 
breed, as to show him how much there was of a good nature 
dormant, and silent, and mingled up with the evil within him. 
Hie education, in a leading respect, was yet to begin. 


OWLS ABROAD. 


77 


CHAPTER IX. 

OWLS ABROAD. 

Let us back to the woods and their wild inhabitants. We 
have seen the success of the woodman in dissuading his young 
companion from the idle and rash demonstration which he 
sought to make upon the person of the tory captain. Prevent- 
ed from any attempt upon the life of Barsfield, Mellichampe 
nevertheless determined upon watching his footsteps. In this 
design he was readily seconded by Witherspoon. This, in- 
deed, was a duty with them both. They were then playing 
the part of scouts to Marion. Taking their way on foot, 
immediately after their enemies, they kept the cover of the 
forest, with the caution of experienced woodmen, venturing 
only now and then upon the skirts of the road, in such conti- 
guity as to enable them to command a full view, for some dis- 
tance on either hand, of everything that took place upon it. 
Familiar with the neighborhood, they availed themselves of 
each by-way and foot-path to shorten the distance ; and thus, 
gaining ground at every step, they were readily and soon ena- 
bled to come in sight of the persons they pursued. 

The fierce spirit of the youthful Mellichampe could scarcely 
be restrained by a wholesome prudence, while he saw, at mo- 
ments, through the leaves, the person of his enemy. It was 
with no small increase of vexation, when they came in sight 
of Piney Grove, that he saw the troop of the tory turning 
into the avenue. Could he have listened to the dialogue be- 
tween the tory Cc^ptain and his lieutenant at this time, his fury 
would scarce have been restrain able. Ft would have been 
a far more difficult matter for his companion then to have 
kept him fron his meditated rashness. A passing remark of 


78 


MELLTCHATVIPE. 


Thumbscrew, as the course of Barsfield grew obvious, seemed 
to add new fuel to the fire already burning in his bosom. 

“So ho! he’s for Piney Grove to-night! Well, Airnest, 
that knocks up your business. There’s no gitting to see Mass 
Janet wliile Barsfield’s there, I reckon.” 

“And why not?” was the fierce demand, “why not? I 
will see her to-night, by Heaven, though I die for it 1 I have 
promised her, and God help me, as I shall keep that and every 
promise that I have made, or shall ever make, to her! Do 
you think. Thumbscrew, that I fear this scoundrel ? Do you 
think that I would not the rather go, if I thought that it was 
possible to encounter him alone ? I have prayed for such a 
chance, and I would pray for it now, even were the odds more 
numerously against me.” 

“ Don’t be rash, Airnest — don’t be headstrong and contrary, 
boy. It’ll be mighty onwise and redic’lous for you to go to 
Piney Grove to-night, though you did make a promise : there’s 
no use for it, and it’s like going into the lion’s den, as a body 
may say. Barsfield, you may be sure, will put out his sentries ; 
and them tories, like the smallpox they have in Charleston 
noAv, are mighty catching. You can’t go there with any 
chance of clearing the bush ; and if that chap gets you in 
ais gripe, it’ll go monstrous hard with you. He knows you’ve 
got no reason to love him; and he’s hearn, long ago, how 
you’ve sworn agin him ; and he’d like nothing better now, do 
you see, than to set finger upon you. You can’t think how 
pleasant it would make him feel to put a grape-vine round 
your neck : so you must keep quiet, and not think of seeing 
Miss Janet to-night.” 

“ But I must and will think of it. I will see her at every 
hazard, and you need say nothing more on the subject. Thumb- 
screw, unless you change very greatly the burden of what you 
say. This caution — caution — caution — nothing but caution 

is the dullest music ; it sickens me to the soul. You are too 
careful of me by half. Thumbscrew ; I cafl’t move but you 
follow and counsel me — striving to guard me against a thou- 
sand dangers and difficulties which nobody ever dreams of but 
yourself.” 


OWLS ABROAD. 


79 


" That’s because I loves you, Airnest, much better than 
anybody else, and much better, when the truth’s spoken, than 
you loves yourself,” replied the woodman, affectionately put- 
ting his arms around the neck of his youthful companion : ** I 
loves you, Airnest, and I watches you like an old hen that’s 
got but one chicken left, and I clucks and scratches twice as 
much for that very reason. If there was a dozen to look after, 
now, the case would be different ; I wouldn’t make half the 
fuss that I make about the one : but, you see, when it so 
happens that the things a man’s got to love gits fewer and 
smaller, they gits more valuable, Airnest, in his sight ; for he 
knows mighty well, if he loses them, that he’s jist like an old 
bird that comes back to the tree when the blossoms and the 
flowers have all dropped off, and are rotting under it. It’s 
mighty nigh to winter in his heart then, Airnest — mighty 
nigh — and the sooner he begins to look out for a place to sleep 
in, the wiser man you may take him to be. But, Airnest, ’taint 
altogither that I loves you so that makes me agin your going 
to-night to see the gal ” 

“ Stop, Thumbscrew, if you please,” were the words of inter- 
ruption sternly uttered by the youth ; “ you will change your 
mode of speech in speaking of Miss Berkeley, and, when you 
refer to her in my hearing, you will please do so with becom- 
ing respect.” 

“ S wounds, Airnest, don’t I respect her? Don’t you know 
that I respects her? Don’t I love her, I ax you, a-most as 
much as I loves you? and wouldn’t I do anything for you 
both, that wasn’t a mean, cowardly thing ? You know I 
doesn’t mean to be disrespectful in what I says consarning her; 
and you mustn’t talk so as if you thought I did. I says I’m 
agin your going to see her, or anybody at Piney Grove, not 
because it’s you that’s going, but because I wouldn’t have any- 
body go, that b’longs to Marion’s men, into the clutches of 
them there thieves and murderers. It’ll be as much as your 
neck’s worth to go there, for Barsfield is something of a soger, 
and will be sure to put out scouts and sentries all round the 
house. If he don’t he’s no better than a nigger, and desarvea 
to be cashiered.” 


80 


MELLICHAMPE. 


Danger or no danger, Thumbscrew, I’ll go to Piney Grove 
this night, as I have promised. You may spare yourself all 
farther exhortation. I keep my word, though death be in the 
way.” 

“ Well, now, Airnest, that’s what I call pervarsion and mere 
foolishness. She won’t look for you, Airnest. She’s a lady 
of sense and understanding, and won’t So much as dream to 
see you after Barsfield’s coming.” 

“ Say no more,” said the youth, decisively ; “ I will go. 
Let us now return to our horses, and you can then go on to 
Broom Hollow, where I’ll meet you by midnight.” 

The youth turned away while speaking, and the woodman 
followed him, though slowly, and with looks of deepest concern. 

“ You wants to see her, Airnest, that’s it ; it ain’t so much 
because you promised, as because you wants to keep your 
promise. Ah, Airnest, this love in young people — it ain’t 
sensible, and I say it ain’t strong and lasting. No love is 
strong and lasting if it ain’t sensible. This what you has now 
is only a sulky autumn fever, Airnest ; it’ll burn like old ven- 
geance for a month or so, and everybody that don’t know any- 
thing about it might reckon it hot enough to set the woods 
a-fire ; but it goes off monstrous quick after that, for you see 
it burns its substance all away, and then comes on the shaking 
ague, and it sticks to you, God only knows, there’s no telling 
how long !” 

The youth smiled, not less at the earnestness of his com- 
panion’s manner, than at the grotesqueness of his compari- 
sons. He contented himself as they pursued their way back to 
the cover which they had left, by insisting upon the superior 
nature of his affecton to that which he had described. 

“Not so with me. Thumbscrew; I know myself too well; 
and, if I did not, I certainly know Janet too well ever to love 
her less than now, unless some change of which I dream not, 
and which I believe impossible — some strange change — shall 
ome over both of us. But no more of this; let us see to our 
horses, and with the dark you can go on to Broom Hollow, 
where I will seek you as soon after I leave ‘ Piney Grove’ aa 
1 c^>n.” 


OWLS ABROAD. 


81 


The woodman shook his head and muttered to himself, with 
an air not less of decision than of dissent. If his companion 
was fixed in his determination, Thumbscrew was not less re- 
solved in his ; but of this he said nothing. Quietly enough, 
and with the composure and intimacy of two relying friends, 
they sought out their retreat, behind which, some hundred 
yards, a close bay gave shelter to their horses — two noble 
animals, well caparisoned, which bounded away beneath them 
with a free step and a graceful movement, though the dark- 
ness already covered the highway, making the path doubtful, 
if not dangerous, in some places, to riders less experienced 
and bold than themselves. They retraced the ground which 
they had just left, and’ when they had reached the avenue 
leading to “ Piney Grove,*’ they sunk into the contiguous 
woods, and there Mellichampe, alighting, prepared himself for 
that visit to his mistress from which his comrade had so earn- 
estly endeavored to dissuade him. Nor did he now forbear 
his solicitations to the same effect. , He urged his objections 
more gently, yet with his former earnestness, only to meet 
with same stern decision. 

“Well, now, Airnest,” said the faithful woodman, “sence 
you’re bent to go, like a wilful fox that’s still got a tail worth 
docking, suppose you let me go along with you? You’d bet- 
ter, now; I can keep watch — ” 

“ Pshaw ! Thumbscrew, what nonsense ! I need no watch, 
and certainly would not permit your presence at such a time. 
You know I go to meet with a lady.” 

“ Swounds, Airnest ! but she sha’n’t see me.” 

“Why, man, of what do you speak? Would you have me 
guilty of a meanness, Thumbscrew ?” 

“ Dang it, Airnest !” I see it’s no use to talk. You’re on 
your high horse to-day, and nobody can take you down. I’ll 
leave you; but, Airnest, boy, keep a bright look-out, and stick 
to the bush close as a blind ’possum that’s lame of a fore-paw. 
You’re going among sharp woodmen, them same tories; and 
they’ll give you a hard drive if they once sets foot on your 
trail, When do you say you’ll come?” 

4 * 


82 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


“ About midnight — but don’t wait for me. Go to sleep, old 
fellow, for I know you need it.” 

“ Good-by, Airnest ! God bless you !” 

“ Good-by.” 

“ And, Airnest — 

“ What now, Thumby ?” 

“ Keep snug, that’s all, and don’t burn daylight ; that’s to 
say, don’t waste time. Good-by.” 

The youth, leaving his horse carefully concealed and fasten- 
ed in a well-chosen spot, hurriedly plunged forward, into the 
woods with a precipitation seemingly intended to free him 
from the anxieties of his companion, who watched his progress 
for a few moments as he divided the bushes in his flight. 
Thumbscrew looked after him with all the concern of a parent 
in a time of trying emergency. He shook his head appre- 
hensively, as, leading his own steed forth toward the highway, 
he seemed to prepare for his departure in the direction assign- 
ed him. 

He had scarcely reached the road, however, when the ap- 
* proach of a driving horseman struck his senses and an-ested 
his progress. The scout drew back instantly into the cover 
of the bush, and, placing himself in a position which would 
enable hiiti to retreat at advantage, should the horseman pi'ove 
other than he wished, he whistled thrice in a manner peculiar 
to the men of Marion. He was instantly answered in the same 
manner by the horseman who drew up his steed with the ex 
change of signals. Thumbscrew at once emerged from the 
copse, and was addressed by the stranger in a dialect adopted 
among the partisans for greater security. Thumbscrew replied 
by what would seem a question. 

“ Owls abroad ?” 

“ Owls at home !” was the immediate response of the stran- 
ger, by which the calling in of the scouts to the main body 
was at once signified to his comrade. He continued, as they 
approached each other — 

“ What owl hoots?” 

“Thumbscrew, was the reply of Witherspoon, giving the 
familiar name by which hi‘- companions generally knew hint. 


OWLS ABROAD. 83 

“ Ah, Witherspoon,” said the other, who proved to be Hum- 
phries, “ is that you 

“A piece of me — I ain’t altogether myself, seeing thd,t I 
ain’t in a good humor quite.” 

“ Well, stir up, for you’re wanted. The hoys have work on 
hand, and the ‘fox’ has got news of a tory gathering, so lie’s 
gon= to drinking vinegar, and that’s sign enough to show us 
that we must have a brush. Major Singleton has ordered in 
our squad, and looks out for a squall. So there’s news for 
you.” 

“ I reckon I’ve got quite as much, Humphries, to give you 
back for it in return. What would you say, now, if I tell you 
that Barsfield is here, within five hundred yards of us, with a 
smart company of red-jackets, and two big wagons of baggage?” 
“No !” 

“ But I say yes !” and the scout then proceeded to inform 
his comrade of those matters in reference to Barsfield’s arrival 
at Piney Grove with which the reader has already been made 
acquainted. 

Humphries listened attentively, then exclaimed — 

“ I see it, Thumby ; Barsfield is to meet these same tories, 
and probably take the lead of them. We heard from a boy 
that they were to gather, but he could not say who was to com- 
mand ’em ; and the general thought he could dash in among 
’em before they could get arms and ammunition for a start. 
He’ll have more work now than he thought for.” 

“Well, and where are you bent now, Humphries? a’n’t you 
going back with this news, I tell you?” 

“ Yes, to be sure ; but you must go in yourself at once. I 
am pushing on for Davis, and Baxter, and little Gwinn : they 
aie all out on your line. We want all the muzzles we can 
muster. Where’s Mister Mellichampe ?” 

The scout answered this question gloomily, as he told of the 
adventurous movement of the youth in visiting the “Piney 
Grove” while it was in the possession of the enemy, and of his 
own urgent entreaties to prevent it. 

“ It’s an ugly risk he’s taking,” said Humphries ; “ but what 
can you do — you can’t help it now ?” 


84 


MELLTCITAMPK. 


“ Why, yes, I think I can,” said the other, quickly. “ I 
can’t find it in my heart to leave the boy in the hand of them 
Philistines, and so, you see, Humphries, soon as I can hide my 
horse in the hollow, Pm going back after him. I won’t let 
him see me, for he’s mighty ticklish and passionate, and may 
get in a bad humor ; but I can keep close on his skirts, and 
say nothing — only, if harm comes, I can lend him a helping 
hand, you see, when he don’t look for it.” 

** Well, you’ve little time, and, soon as you let him know 
that he’s wanted, you must both push off for the swamp. 
There’s a branch broke across the road at ‘ My Lady’s Fancy’ 

— the butt-end points to the right track; and, on the same 
line, after you get into the bush, you’ll see another broken 
branch just before you ; go to the bush-end, and keep ahead 

— that’ll lead you down to the first sentry, and that’s 
M'Donald, I think. But the two branches a’n’t thirty yards 
from each other; so that, if the one in the road should bo. 
changed by anybody, you’ll only have to look round in the 
woods till you find the other.” 

Having given 'these directions, he stooped and whispered 
the camp password for the night in the ears of his attentive 
comrade: — 

“ Moultrie !” 

Putting spurs to his steed, in another instant he had left the 
place of conference far behind him. Thumbscrew, then, re- 
turning to the Wood, carefully placed his horse in hiding, and 
proceeded, according to the silent determination which he had 
made, upon the path taken by his young companion. He was 
soon in the thicket adjoining the plan^tion, and resolute to do 
his best to save the youth, over whom he kept a watch sc 
paternal, from any of the evil consequences which he feared 
might follow from his rashness. 


THUNDER IN A CLEAR SKY. 


85 


CHAPTER X. 

THUNDER IN A CLEAR SKY. 

At the hospitable board of Mr. Berkeley, to which we now 
return, the parties appear seated precisely as we left them. 
Their condition is not the same, however. They have done 
full justice, during our absence, to the repast, and to their own 
appetites, rendered more acute from their active travel of the 
day. The first rude demands of hunger had been satisfied ; 
the urgent business of the table was fairly over ; and nothing 
now remained to prevent the tory captain from playing the 
double part of social guest and earnest lover. His position 
might well have prompted him to an unwonted effort in the 
presence of one whose favor he sought to wfin. Not so, how- 
ever. Barsfield, though bold and insolent enough with a rude 
troop and in the forest, was yet abashed in the presence of the 
beautiful and innocent Janet. He was one of those instances, 
so frequently to be met with, of a man possessed of energies 
of mind calculated to reach distinction, but wanting in that 
delicacy of feeling and demeanor, the result only of polislied 
society, which alone can sustain him there unembarrassed and 
at ease. Too harsh in his habits to conciliate without an 
effort, he was, at the same time, top little familiar with the nice 
delicacies and acute sensibilities of the female heart to make 
the attempt with judgment ; and we find him, accordingly, the 
well-dressed boor, in a strange circle, endeavoring to disguise 
his own consciousness of inadequacy by a dashing and forward 
der^ieanor, which had all the aspect of impertinence. He 
made sundr}' efforts to engage the maiden and her young com- 
panion in the toils of conversation, but proved far less suc- 
cessful than his second in command, who led the way in the 
suggestion of topics, caught up the falling ends of chit-chat, 


86 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


and, with all the adroitness of an old practitioner, knotted 
them together as fast as his superior, in his clumsy efforts to 
do likewise, tore them asunder. 

Clayton was a lively, brisk, ready youth, not over well- 
informed, hut with just sufficient reading and experience to 
while away a dull hour with a thoughtless maiden. Janet 
heard him with respect, but said little. Rose Duncan, how- 
ever, had few restraints — certainly none like those restraining 
the former — and she chatted on with as thoughtless a spirit as 
if there had been no suffering in the land. Barsfield envied 
his lieutenant the immense gift of the gab which the latter 
possessed, and his envy grew into a feeling of bitter mortifi- 
cation, when every effort of his own to engage Janet in dia- 
logue failed utterly, and, evidently, quite as often from his 
own inefficiency, as from the maiden’s reluctance, to maintain 
it. A quiet “ Yes” or “ No” was the only response which she 
appeared to find necessary in answer to all his suggestions ; 
and these, too, were uttered so coldly and so calmly, as to dis- 
courage the otherwise sanguine tory in the hope that maiden 
bashfulness alone, and not indifference, was the true cause of 
her taciturnity. The old man, her father, as he saw the 
anxiety of Barsfield to fix his daughter’s attention, and, as he 
hoped to conciliate one having a useful influence, strove to 
second his efforts, by so directing the course of the conversa- 
tion as to bring out the resources of the maiden ; but even 
his efforts proved in a great degree unsuccessful. Her mind 
seemed not at home in all the scene, and exhibited but little 
sympathy with those around her. To those who looked close- 
ly, and could read so mysterious a language as that of a young 
maiden’s eye, it might be s’een that, in addition to her reluc- 
tance to converse with Barsfield, there was also a creeping fear 
in her bosom, which chilled and fevered all its elasticity. As 
the hour advanced, this feeling showed itself by occasional 
unquiet movements of her eye, which glanced its sweet fires 
fitfully around, as if in searching for some object which it yet 
dreaded to encounter. 

This state of disquietude did not fail to strike the keen 
watchfulness of Barsfield, whose own imperfect success only 


THUNDER IN A CLEAR SKY. 


87 


made him the more jealously observant. Though unable to 
win the heart of a fair lady, he was yet not altogether inca- 
pable of perceiving its movements; and he soon discovered 
that, in addition to the dislike which Janet entertained for his 
pretensions, there was ground enough to imagine that she had 
far less aversion to those of another. He watched her the 
more closely from this reflection, and soon had assurance 
doubly sure on the subject of his conjecture. 

In the meanwhile the supper things had undergone removal ; 
the several persons of the party were dispersed about the room, 
the two ladies occupying the sofa, at one arm of which, and 
immediately beside Rose Duncan, sat Lieutenant Clayton, 
bending forward, and exchanging Avith her a free supply of 
chit-chat, sentimental and capricious. Barsfield, on the other 
hand, addressed his regards only to Janet, who sat, statue-like 
and pale, seemingly unmoved by all she heard, and with that 
air of abstraction and anxiety which shows the thought to be 
far distant. There was a dash of apprehension also in her air, 
such as the young fawn, skirting the roadside for the first 
time, might be supposed to exhibit, under the suggestion of its 
own timid spirit, rather than of any real danger from the 
approach of the hunter. This expression of countenance, hoAv^- 
ever the maiden might labor for its concealment, Avas y(‘t 
sufficiently evident to one so jealously aroused and suspicious 
as the tory captain; and he could not forbear, at length, as 
he found that all other topics failed to bring about a regular 
conversation with her, to insinuate his own doubts of that per- 
fect composure of her mind which, in reply to his inquiry, her 
language had expressed, but which he did not think, at the 
same time, that she really entertained. 

“ Something surely has occurred to trouble you. Miss Berkeley 
— some unlucky disaster, no doubt? Your favorite nonpareil 
has broken bonds, perhaps — your mocking-bird has sung his 
last song before strangling himself betAveen his Avires — some- 
thing equally, if not more sad, has Listened itself upon your 
spirits, and taken the wonted color from your cheeks. Let me 
sympathize with you in your misfortune, I pray you; let me 
know the extent and the cause of your affliction.” 


88 


MKLLICHAMrE. 


How bitter!/ ironical was the glance wLicli accompanied 
this speech. 

“Rather say,” replied the laughing Rose, quickly and 
archly, as she beheld the annoyance which the words of the 
tory had brought to her cousin, “rather say that she dreads 
some danger to her favorite — that she has seen some threaten- 
ing hawk hovering over her dovecot, and dreads momently 
that he wall pounce upon the covey, and — ” 

“ Rose ! Rose Duncan !” hurriedly exclaimed Janet, wdth a 
most appealing glance of her eye, for she knew the playful 
character of her companion ; “No more of this. Rose, I beg 
you. I am not in the humor for sport this evening. I beg 
that you will desist. I am not well.” 

“ Oh, if you beg so prettily, and so humbly too, I have done, 
coz. I would not vex you for the world, particularly when you 
surrender so quietly at discretion. But, really, I have no 
other way to revenge myself for the sarcasms I am made to 
endure by Mr. Clayton ; he is really so witty— so very excru- 
ciating.” 

She turned, as she spoke, w ith a full glance of her arch 
blue eye upon Clayton, and wath an expression of face so 
comically sarcastic, that she even succeeded in diverting the 
glance of Barsfield from the face of her cousin to that of his 
lieutenant. Clayton laughed sillily in reply, and strove to 
meet the sarcasm with as much good-nature as would disarm 
it. He replied at the same time playfuly to Rose, and the 
conversation w^ent on between them. This little episode — the 
allusion of Rose, though innocently made on her part, w as 
calculated to increase as well the apprehensions of Janet, as 
the suspicions of Barsfield ; and he determined not to yield the 
point, but, if possible, pressing it still more home, to see if he 
could not elicit some few more decided proofs of that disquiet 
of the heart under which Janet so evidently labored. He w'as 
not troubled with those gentlemanly scruples which should 
have produced a pause, if not a direct arrest, of such a deter- 
mination. On the contrary, he knew of no principles but those 
which were subservient to the selfish purposes of a coarse, un- 
polished soul. 


THUNDER IN A CLEAR SKY. 


89 


• This allegory of your fair friend, Miss Berkeley, would 
seem not altogether wanting in some direct application, if one 
may judge from the degree of annoyance which it occasions 
you. Is it true that some favorite dove is in danger — does the 
hawk really hang over head ; and am I to trace in the likeness 
of the one, a wild rebel, an outlaw of the land — some senti- 
mental robber of the swamp — and, in the other, the vigilant 
sentinel of an indulgent monarch, keeping watch over the fold 
and protecting it against the excursive marauder ? If so, in 
which of these two shall I hold Miss Berkeley to be so greatly 
interested V* 

Mr. Berkeley eagerly bent forward to hear the answer of his 
daughter; and even Blonay, who had withdrawn himself 
humbly into a corner of the room, seemed to comprehend some- 
thing of the matter in hand, and stretched out his long neck, 
while his blear eyes peered into those which the maiden now 
fixed upon her questioner. 

' “ I am not good, sir, at solving riddles,” was her calm reply; 

and really can not undertake to say to what your present 
remark should refer. Perhaps you are right, however, in com- 
paring to the innocent bird, in danger from the lurking fowler, 
the outlaw whom you call the rebel. The hawk, sir, stands 
well enough for the pursuer. But, if these comparisons be true, 
there is no danger to us, I assure you, as I myself believe, 
even should the outlaw become the marauder.” 

And here she paused, and her eyes were withdrawn from 
the person to whom she had spoken. The tory bit his lip ; 
and, though he strove with that object, failed to suppress the 
dissatisfaction which her speech had occasioned. Taking up 
her reply, which had been evidently left unfinished, he pro- 
ceeded to carry out the sentence. 

“ But there is danger, you would say, from the latter. Let 
me remove your fears. Miss Berkeley. The hawk will w'atch 
over his charge without preying upon it, as you shall see. 1 
am not unwilling to appear before you as one of the brood, and 
you and yours shall be secure in the protection I shall briijg 
you against any lurking rebel in your swamps.” 

“ I believe not that we have much to fear from that quarter, 


90 


MELLICHAMPE. 


Mr. Barsfield, provided none but Marion’s men get into them 
They never trouble us.” 

“ But, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “ we are none the 
less indebted to Captain Barsfield for his aid and assistance. 
It is true, captain, we have not sulFered much if any loss yet 
from the people who are out; but times may change, captain, 
and there’s no knowing how soon your kind assistance may 
be of the utmost importance. ,We should not be ungrateful, 
Janet.” 

“ I would not, father,” responded the maiden, meekly ; 
“ Captain Barsfield has my thanks for the aid he has proffered 
us, though I still think we shall not find it necessary. Our 
home has always been a quiet one, and has been respected by 
all parties. My father,” and here she turned to Barsfield with 
a free and fearless glance, “My father is an invalid, and can 
not take any part in the war which is going on ; and while he 
extends his hospitality to all, without distinction, he may well 
hope to need little of the aid of either in defending him from 
any. It is as little, under these circumstances, as we can 
require, that our guests shall forbear the use of language which 
might either give us pain, as it refers contemptuously or un- 
justly to our friends and those whom we esteem, or must in- 
volve us in the controversy which we should better avoid. 
Captain Barsfield will forgive me if I am unwilling to listen to 
the abuse of my countrymen.” 

The manner of the maiden was so dignified as to silence 
farther controversy. Barsfield submitted with a very good 
grace, though inwardly extremely chafed at the resolute and 
unreserved manner in which she spoke of those whom he 
had denounced as rebels, and to whose patriotic conduct his 
own had been so unhappily opposed. He strove, however, not 
merely to subdue his ill-humor, but to prove to her that it had 
given way to better feelings ; and, with a due increase of 
courtesy, he arose, and would have conducted her to the fine 
old harpsichord, which formed a most conspicuous article of 
the household furniture in the apartment. She declined, how- 
ever, to perform, in spite of every compliment which he could 
bestow upon her skill and voice, with both of which he ap- 


THUNDER IN A CLEAR SKY. 


Q! 


peared to be familiar. Her father added liis solicitations also ; 
blit she pleaded unpreparedness and her own indisposition 
so firmly, that the demand was at length given up. The 
lieutenant, however, was more successful with the inconsiderate 
and laughing girl who sat beside him. She offered no scruples 
— said she loved to play and sing of all things in the world ; 
and, taking her seat in the midst of her own jest and laughter, 
touched the keys with a free finger, that seemed perfectly at 
home, while she sang the following little ditty, with a fin<a 
clear voice which filled the apartment : — 

L 

Though grief assail thee, young hearty 
And doubt be there. 

And stone-eyed care. 

And sickness ail thee, young hearty 
Love on — love on. 

n. 

A greater anguish, young heart, 

Than these can be. 

Should love, in thee. 

For ever languish, young heartl — 

Love on — love on, 

m. 

Life’s choicest pleasure, young heart, 

Can only wait 
On her whose fate 

Makes love her treasure, young heaitl • 

Love on — love on. 

" IV. 

And know that sorrow, young heeirt, 

And wo, and strife, 

Belong to life, 

And are love’s horror, young heart I >■» 

Love on — love on. 

V. 

They fear his glances, young heart, 

And fleet away 
As night from day, 

When he advances, young heart-^ 

Love on — love on. 


n 


MKLLICHAMPE. 


VX 

A happy comer, young heart, 

Love’s earliest bird 
May now be heard, 

With voice of summer, young hearts 
Love on— love on. 

vn. 

Around thee springing, young heart, 

Bird, leaf, and flower, 

That fill thy bower, 

Are ever singing, young heart — 

Love on — love on. 

While the song of Rose was yet trilling in their ears, a faint 
but distinct whistle penetrated the apartment. The quick and 
jealous sense of Barsfield was the very first to hear it; and, 
from the corner where he sat crouching, the long neck of Bio- 
nay^ might have been seen suddenly thrust out, as his head 
leaned forward to listen. The eye of the tory captain invol- 
untarily turned upon the face of Janet Berkeley : a deeper 
paleness had overshadowed it ; and, though she did not, and 
dared not, look in the direction of her observer, she well knew 
that his gaze was fastened upon her, and this knowledge in- 
creased her confusion. The suspicions of Barsfield, always 
active, were doubly aroused at the present moment, though, 
with the policy of a practised soldier, he yet took especial care 
to conceal them. — 

It was curious to look on the half-breed all the while. The 
instinct of the scout had awakened into a degree of conscious- 
ness with that whistle, which all the sweet music of Rose Dun- 
can, to which he had been listening, could never have pro- 
voked. His thought was already in the woods ; and, like some 
keen hound, his mood began to grow impatient of restraint, and 
to hunger after tire close chase and the bloody fray. The eye 
of Barsfield, turning from the fare of t'ae maiden, was fixed 
upon him; and, ivitli his habitual caution, Blonay, as he saw 
himself observed, drew in his head, which novir rested with his 
usual listnessness upon his shoulder, while he seemed to lapse 
away into his accustomed stupor. 


THUNDKli IN A CLKAIi SKY. 


93 


The signal,. if such it were, was again repeated, and closer 
at hand. A faint smile curled .the lips of the toiy captain, and 
his glance again settled upon the face of Janet. She strove 
to encounter that glance of inquisitive insolence, but her heart 
was too full of its fears. She could not — her eye sank away 
from the encounter, and the suspicions of the tory were con- 
firmed. 

“ There’s a signal for somebody,” was his careless remark. 

“A signal!” exclaimed Clayton and Rose, in the same 
breath. 

“ A signal !” said Mr. Berkeley, in alarm. 

“Yes, a signal — and the signal of one of Marion’s men,” 
was the reply of Barsfield. “He has strayed this time into 
the wrong grounds, and will be laid by his heels if he heed 
liot his footsteps.” 

The hands of Janet were clasped involuntarily, and a prayer- 
ful thought was rapidly springing in her mind, while her heart 
beat thick with its apprehensions. 

“ Why do you think it a signal of Marion’s men, captain ]” 
was the inquiry of Clayton ; “ may it not be the whistle of 
some idler among our own ]” 

“No; he might run some risk of a bullet if that were the 
case. Our loyalists know these sounds too well not to prick 
their ears when they hear them. That whistle is peculiar, and 
not so easily imitated. There — you hear it again 1 The 
enemy is daring, if he be an enemy ; if a friend, he is not 
less so.” 

“ It may be one of the negroes,” was the timidly-expressed 
suggestion of Mr. Berkeley. 

“ Miss Berkeley will scarcely concur with you in that con- 
jecture,” was the sarcastic response of Barsfield, while his eye 
scrutinized closely and annoyingly the rapidly-changing color 
upon her cheeks. As he gazed, her emotion grew almost in- 
supportable, and her anxiety became so intense as to be per- 
ceptible to all. Her eyes seemed not to regard the company, 
but were fixed and wild in their frozen stare upon a distant 
window of the apartment. That glance, so immoveable and 
so full of earnest terror, proved a guide to that of the tory 


94 


MKIJJC'JIAMPK. 


He read, in its intensity of gaze, a furtlier solution of the mys- 
tery ; and, turning suddenly in ihe same direction, the secret 
was revealed. The distant hut distinct and well-known fea- 
tures of Ernest Mellichampe were clearly seen through the 
pane, looking in over the head of Blonay, from the piazza to 
which he had ascended. The movement of Barsfield was in- 
stantaneous. With a fierce oath he dashed from his seat, and, 
seizing his sabre, which lay upon a neighboring table, rushed 
toward the entrance. The movement of Janet Berkeley was 
not less sudden. She darted with a wild cry, something be- 
tween a shriek and a prayer, and stood directly in his path- 
way — her eye still fixed upon the window where her lover 
stood — her heart still pleading for his safety — her arm uplifted 
for his defence. 

“ Let me pass. Miss Berkeley I” were the htirried words and 
stern demand of the tory. 

“Never — never — I will perish first!” she exclaimed, inco- 
herently and unconsciously, in reply. 

He extended his arm to put her aside, and by this time the 
whole party had arisen from their seats, wondering at what 
they saw, for they were ignorant of the knowledge possessed 
by the tory. The father of the maiden would have interposed, 
and Rose Duncan, surprised and terrified, also came forward ; 
but Janet Berkeley heeded them not. Furious at the inter- 
ruption, Barsfield cried out to Clayton to pursue. 

“ The rebel Mellichampe 1” was his cry ; “ he is in the pi- 
azza now ; he was but this instant at the window. Pursue 
him with all the men — cut him to pieces — give him no quar- 
ter — fly 1” 

The form of Janet filled the doorway : her arms were ex- 
tended. 

“Mercy!” she cried; “mercy, mercy! Fly not — pursue 
him not: he is gone — he is beyond your reach. Mercy — 
have mercy !” 

They put her aside, and Barsfield hurried through the door. 
She caught his arm with a nervous grasp, and clung to him in 
the fervor of a desperation growing out of her accumulating 
terrors. He broke furiously away from her hold, and she sank. 


THUNDKB TN A CLTCAR SKY. 


^5 


fainting and exhausted, but still conscious of her lover’s dan- 
ger, at full length along the floor. They were gone in the 
pursuit, the tory captain and his lieutenant ; but Blonay, though 
he had risen with the rest, still remained in the apartment. 
The old father tottered to his daughter in consternation, and 
strove, with the assistance of Rose, to lift her from the ground. 
In his own rude way, and ttembling, too, at the idea of his 
near approach to one so superio \ 3Ionay proffered his assist- 
ance. 

“The poor gal,” he exclaimed m vjnes of unwonted pity, 
while lifting her to the sofa — “ th3 poo:: gal, she’s main fright- 
ened new, 1 tell you !” 

“ My child — -my child! — speak ^,o me> ny Janet! Look 
upon me! — it is your father, Janet! Look up to me, my 
oaugl ter I” 

Her eyes unclosed, and her lips were m jsred in correspondence 
witti the agonizing thoughts and apprehensions of her soul. 

“ Mellichai. pe — rash, rash Msllichampe ! Oh, father, they 
will take — they w'll murder him ! ’ 

“Fear not, my child, fear not,’' was the father’s reply, his 
own accents full of tbr.t veiy fear which he required that she 
should not feel. “Fear nothing; this is my house — these are 
my grounds. They shall not — no, my daughter, they dare 
uot — touch a hair of the head of Mellicliampe.” 

But the daughter knew better than her father his own weak- 
ness and the insecurity of her lover, and she shook her head 
mournfully, though listening patiently to all his efforts at con- 
solation. In that moment the father’s love of his child grew 
conspicuous. He hung over her, and sobjbed freely like an 
infant. He said a thousand soothing things in her ears ; pre- 
dicted a long life of happiness with her lover; strove to reas- 
sure her on every topic of their mutual apprehension ; and, on 
his own tottering frame, with the assistance of Rose Duncan, 
helped her to the chamber whose repose she seemed so impera- 
tively to require. 


MELLIOHAMPE. 


?>6 


JilAPTER XL 

SCIPIO. 

The movement of Barsfield was almost as soon perceived 
by Mellichampe as it had been by Janet Berkeley. Ke saw, 
at a glance, the abrupt spring which the tory made from his 
chair ; and, conjecturing the cause of his emotion, he prepared 
himself for flight. Though rash in the extreme, he was not so 
much of the madman as to dare the contest with srch a force 
as Barsfield could bring against him : yet loath was he, indeed, 
to fly before so hated an enemy. 

“ Oh, could we but cross v/eanons alone in that deep forest, 
with no eye upon us but those heavenl/ watchers, and the grim 
spirits that hover around and exult in the good stroke which 
is struck for vengeance ! Could we there meet, Barsfield — • 
but this hour — I would ask nothing more from Heaven !” 

This was the prayer of Mellichampe ; these were his words, 
muttered through his clinched teeth, as, turning from the win- 
dow, he placed his hands on the light railing of the balcony, 
and, heedless of the height — something over fifteen feet — 
leaped, with a fearless, yet bitter heart, into the yard below. 

He had come, agreeably to his appointment with the maiden, 
and, as we have seen, in spite of all the solicitations of his 
friend and comrade. He had uttered his accustomed signals 
— they had been, of necessity, disregarded. Vexed and fever- 
ish, his blood gi*ew more phrensied at everj moment which he 
was compelled to wait ; and, at no time blessed with patience, he 
had adopted the still more desperate resolution of penetrating 
to the very dwelling which contained the maiden whom he 
loved. What to him was the danger from an enemy at such a 
moment, and witli feelings such as his? What were those 


SCIPIO. 


97 


feelings — what the fears which possessed him ? Patient and 
reckless, his feelings and his thoughts did equal injustice to 
her and to himself. 

She forgets — she forswears me like all the rest. He seeks 
her, perhaps, and she— ha! what hope had the desperate and 
the desolate ever yet from woman, when pomp and prosperity 
approached as his rival 

He little knew the maiden whom he so misjudged ; hut it 
was thus that he communed with his own bitter spirit, when 
lie made the rash determination to penetrate to the dwelling, 
from the deep umbrageous garden in its rear, where, hitherto, 
the lovers had been accustomed to meet, in as sweet a bower 
as love could have chosen for a purpose so hallowed. 

But, though rash almost to madness in coming to the dwell- 
ing, Mellichampe was not so heedless of his course as to forget 
the earnest warnings which Witherspoon had given him. In 
approaching the house he had taken the precaution to survey 
all the premises beforehand. The grounds were all well known 
to him, and he made a circuit around them, by which means 
he discovered the manner in which the encampment of the 
troop was made, and how, and where, the sentinels were post- 
ed. These he surveyed without exposure, and, though imme- 
diately contiguous on more than one occasion to the lounging 
guai*d, he escaped without challenge or suspicion. From the 
park he stole hack into the garden. Emerging'from its shel- 
'er, he advanced to the rear of the building, and, passing under 
tha piazza which encompassed it, he stole silently up the steps, 
sought the window, looked in upon the company, and was 
compelled, as we have seen, to fly. 

He was now in the court below ; and, as the bustle went on 
above, he paused to listen and to meditate his course. Mean- 
while the alarm was sounded from the bugle of the troop. The 
commotion of their movement distinctly reached his ears, and 
he leaped off fleetly hut composedly among the trees, which 
concealed his flight toward the garden, just as the rush of 
Barsfield and Clayton down the steps of the piazza warned 
him of the necessity of farther precipitation. At that moment, 
darting forward, he encountered the person of one who wag 

5 


98 


MELLICHAMPE. 


advancing. He had drawn his knife in the first moment of 
his flight, and. looking now only for enemies, it had nearly 
found its sheath in the breast of the stranger, when the tones 
of his voice arrested the fugitive. 

“ Ha, Mass Arnest, dat you ? Lord ’a massy, you ’most 
knock the breat out my body.” 

“ Silence, Scip — not a word, villain. I am pursued by the 
tories. Would you betray me f’ were the humed and em- 
phatic, but suppressed words of Mellichampe. 

“ ’Tray you, Mass Arnest — how come you tink so ? Enty 
da Sip — you truss Sip always, Mass Arnest — truss ’em now,” 
was the prompt reply of the negro, uttered in tones similarly 
low. 

“I will, Scip — I will trust you. Barsfield is upon me, and 
I must gain the garden.” 

“ No go dere. Tory sodger jist run ’long by the garden 
fence.” 

“ Where then, old fellow 

The negro paused for a moment, and the clattering of the 
sabres was now heard distinctly. 

“ Drop, Mass Arnest, drop for dear life close behind dis 
tree. Hug ’em close, I yerry dem coming.” 

“ I have it,” said the youth, coolly, to the bewildered negro, 
as the sounds denoted the approach of the pursuers to that 
quarter of the area in which this brief conference had been 
carried on — 

“ I have it, Scip. I will lie close to this fallen tree, and dc 
you take to your heels in the direction of the woods. To thf‘ 
right, Scip — and let them see you as you run.” 

“How den. Mass Arnest — wha de good ob dat?” 

“ Fly, fellow, they come — to the right, to the right.” 

With the words Mellichampe threw himself prostrate, close 
beside a huge tree that had been recently felled in the enclo 
sure, while the faithful negro darted off without hesitation in 
the direction which had been pointed out to him. In another 
moment a body of the troopers was scattered around the tree^ 
bounding over it in all directions. Barsfield led the pursuit, 
and animated it by his continual commands. The scene grew 


SCIPIO. 


99 


diyersified by the rushing tumults - and the wild cries of the 
pursuers, and it was not many minutes before the chase was 
encouraged by a glimpse which they caught of the flying 
negro. At once all feet were turned in the one direction. 
Soldier after soldier passed in emulous haste over the log 
where Mellichampe lay, and, when the clamor had sunk away 
in the diGtance, he rose quietly, and coolly listening for a few 
seconds to the distant uproar, he stole cautiously back into 
the garden, in the crowded shrubbery and thick umbrage of 
which he might have readily anticipated a tolerable conceal- 
ment while the night lasted from all the troop which Barsfleld 
could muster. Here he could distinguish the various sounds 
and stages of the pursuit ; now spreading far aAvay to the fields 
and on the borders of the park — and now, as the adroit Scipio 
doubled upon his pursuers, coming nigher to the original start- 
ing-place. But whether it was that Scip’s heart failed him, 
or his legs first, may not be said. It is enough to know that 
he began to falter. His enemies gained ground rapidly upon 
him. He passed into a briar-copse, and lay close for a while, 
though torn by their thorns at every forward movement, in the 
liope to gain a temporary rest from the pursuit ; but the chase 
tracked him out, and its thick recesses gave him no shelter. 
The sabres were thrust into the copse in several places, and, 
dreading their ungentle contact, the hunted negro once more 
took to his heels. He dashed forward and made for a little 
pine thicket that seemed to promise him a fair hope for 
concealment; but, when most sanguine, an obtrusive vine 
caught his uplifted foot as he sprang desperately forward, and, 
wa; a heavy ‘squelch that nearly took the breath out of his 
b:dy, he lay prostrate at the mercy of his enemy. Barsfield 
himself was upon him. With a fierce oath and a cry of tri- 
umph he shook his sabre over his head, and threatened instant 
death to the supposed Mellichampe. The poor negro, though 
not unwilling to risk his life for the youth, now thought it high 
time to speak ; and, in real or affected terror, he cried aloud 
hi language not to be mistaken, 

** Don’t you chop a nigger with your sword now, I tell you 


I 


100 


MELLICHAMPE. 


Gor A’miglity, Mass Cappin, you no guine kill a poor iiiggei 
da’s doing nothing at all f ’ 

Barsfield recoiled in astonishment, only to advance upon the 
crouching black with redoubled fury ; and he might have used 
the uplifted weapon simply from the chagrin and disappoint- 
ment, hut that a stronger motive restrained him. With the 
strength and rage of a giant, he hurled the negro hack to the 
ground whence he had now half risen, and fiercely demand- 
ed of him why he had fled from the pursuit. 

“ Ki ! Mass Cappin, you ax a nigger, wha’ for he run. when 
you fuss run at ’em wid you’ big sword, and want to chop ’em 
wid it. Da’s ’nough to make a nigger run, I ’speck. No nig- 
ger nebher guine ’tand for dat.” 

“ Scoundrel ! do not trifle with me,” was the fierce reply 
“ You have seen young Mellichampe.” 

“Who dat — Mass Arnest? No see ’em to-night Mass Cap- 
pin.” 

“ Scoundrel ! you are lying now. I know it. You have hid- 
den him away. Lead us to the spot, or put us upon his track 
so that we find him, or, hy the , Eternal ! I swing you up to 
these branches.” 

The negro solemnly declared his ignorance, but this did not 
satisfy the iory. 

“ Disperse your men over the grounds — the park — the gar- 
den — on all sides. The rebel must be hereabouts still. He 
can not have gone far. Leave me but a couple of stout fellow 
to manage this slave.” 

Clayton was about to go, when the words of Barsfield ut 
tered in a low, freezing zone of determination, reached his ear. 

“ And, hear you, Clayton — no q[uarter to the spy — hew him 
down without a word.” 

The lieutenant departed, leaving the two men whom his 
superior had required. One of those, in obedience to the com- 
mand of Barsfield, produced a stout cord, which was conve- 
niently at hand, from his pocket. 

‘ Wha’ you guine do now. Mass Cappin V* cried the negro, 
beginning to be somewhat alarmed at the cold-blooded sort of 
preparation which the soldier was making. 


8CIPI0. . 101 

“You shall see, you black rascal, soon enough,” was the 
reply. 

“ Noose it now, Drummond,” was the order of the tory. 

It was obeyed, and in another moment the cord encircled 
the neck of the terrified Scipio. 

“ Confess now, sir — confess all you have done — all that you 
know. Have you not seen the rebel to-night?” 

“ Which one, Mass Cappin ?” 

“ No fooling, fellow. You know well enough who I mean — 
the rebel Mellichampe.” 

“Wha* — Mass Arnest?” 

“ Ay.” 

“ No, sa, Mass Cappin. It’s trute wha’ I tell you now. 1 
bery glad for see Mass Arnest, but I a’n’t seen ’em dis tree 
day and seven week. He’s gone, day say, high up the San- 
tee, wib de rest.” 

“ And you haven’t seen him to-night V* 

“Da’s a trute — I no see’m to-night.” 

“ A d d lie, Scipio, which must be punished. Tuck him 

up, Drummond.” 

“ Hab a pity on poor nigger, Mass Cappin ! It’s a nigger 
is no wort salt to be hom’ny. Hab a pity on poor nigger. Ah, 
Mass Barsfield, you no guine hang Scip ? I make prayers for 
you, Mass Barsfield, you no hang Scip dis time.” 

The negro implored earnestly as the design appeared more 
determinately urged by the tory. He was seriously terrified 
with the prospect before him, and his voice grew thick with 
horror and increasing alarm. 

“ Confess, then, or, by God ! you swing on that tree. Tell 
all that you know, for nothing else can save you.” 

‘ I hab noting to tell. Mass Cappin. I berry good nigger, 
da’s honest, sa, more dan all de rest of massa’s niggers, only I 
will tfef Bacon, Mass Cappin. I can’t help tief bacon when I 
git a chance, massa. Da’s all da’s agen Scip, Mass Cap- 
pm. 

There was so much of simplicity in Scipio’s mode of defence, 
that Barsfield half inclined to believe that he was really ignor- 
ant of the place of Mellichampe’s concealment; but, as he 


102 


MKLTJCIIAMPE. 


well knew that Scipio was a favorite family-servant, and re- 
markable for his fidelity, he did not doubt that he would keep 
a secret concerning one so long intimate with it as Mellichampe 
to the very last moment. This suggestion hastened his de- 
cision. With the utmost composure he bade the soldier exe- 
cute his ofiice, and looked on calmly, and heard without heed- 
ing the many adjurations, and prayers, and protestations of 
the negro, desperately urged, as they hurried him to the tree, 
over a projecting limb of which one end of the rope was already 
thrown. 

“ Will you tell noAv, Scipio V* demanded Barsfield of the 
slave, in a tone of voice absolutely frightful to him from its 
gentleness. “Tell me where Mellichampe ran — tell where 
you have concealed him, and I let you go ; but, if you do not, 
you hang in a few moments on this very tree.” 

“ I no see’m. Mass Oappin — he no run, he stan’ in de same 
place. Hab a pity. Mass Cappin, ’pon Scipio, da’s a good nig- 
ger for old massa, and da’s doing noting for harm anybody.” 

“Once more, Scipio — where is the rebel? — where is Melli- 
champe?” ’ f' 

“ Da trute. Mass Oappin, I don’t know.” 

“ Pull him up, men.” 

The cruel order was coolly given, and in tones that left no 
room in the minds of the soldiers to doubt that they' were to 
execute the hurried sentence. Struggling, gasping, and labor- 
ing to speak, Scipio was lifted into air. He kicked desper- 
ately, sought to scream, and at length, as the agony of his 
increasing suffocation grew more and more oppressive, and in 
feeble and scarcely intelligible accents, he professed his wil- 
lingness now to do all that was required of him. 

“I tell — I tell ebbry ting, Mass Cappin — cut de rope, da’s 
all. I tell — cut ’em fass — lose ’em quick. Oh — he da mash 
my head — I choke.” 

The cord was relaxed with the utterance of this promise. 
The victim was suffered to sink down upon the ground, where, 
for a few moments, he crouched, half sitting, half lying, almost 
exhausted with struggling, and seemingly in a stupor from the 
pain and fright he had undergone. But Barsfield did not much 


SCIPIO. 


103 


regard his sufferings. He took the negro at his word, and, 
impatient for his own revenge, hurried the movements of the 
poor creature. The rope was still twined about his neck, and 
thus, kept in continual fear of the doom which had been only 
suspended, he was required to lead the way, and put the pur 
suers upon tlie lost trail of the fugitive. 


MELLICHAMPK. 


tU4 


CHAPTER XIL 

THE TRAIL LOST. 

“ Come, sir — away — put ns on tlie track of the rebel. Show 
where he is hidden — and, liark you, Scipio — not a word — 
no noise to tell him we are coming, or — 

The threat was left unfinished, but it was nevertheless suf- 
ficiently well understood. The reply of the negro was char- 
acteristic. 

“ Gor A’mighty, Mass Barsfield, enty I guine? You no 
’casion push a nigger so. Ef you was to hang me up agen, I 
couldn’t go no more faster dan I does.” 

He led the way freely enough ; but it was not the intention 
of Scipio to betray the trust of Mellichampe, even if it had 
been in his power to lead them to the place of his concealment. 
His object was simply to escape a present difficulty. He had 
no thought beyond the moment. With this object, with the 
natural cunning of the negro, and the integrity of the faithful 
slave, he framed in his mind a plan of search, which, while it 
should be urged on his part with all the earnestness of truth, 
should yet still more effectually mislead the pursuers. Scipio 
was one of those trusty slaves to be found in almost every na- 
tive southern family, who, having grown up with the children 
of their owners, have acquired a certain correspondence of feel- 
ing with them. A personal attachment had strengthened the 
bonds which necessity imposed, and it was quite as much a 
principle in Scipio’s mind to fight and die for his owners, as to 
work for them. Regarding his young mistress with a most un- 
varying devotion, he had been made acquainted at an early 
period with the nature of the tie which existed between her- 
self and Mellichampe, and many were the billets and messages 


THE TRAIL LOST. 


105 


of love, which had been confided by the two to Scipib, during 
the unsophisticated courtship which had been carried on be 
tween them. Proud of the confidence reposed in him, and fond 
of the parties, the trust of Mellichampe was sacred in his keep- 
ing ; and, at the moment of his greatest danger, when the rope 
was about his neck, and his life depended upon one whom he 
well knew to be merciless and unforgiving, he never once con- 
ceived the idea of effecting his escape by a revelation of 
any secret which might have compromised, in the slightest 
degree, either Mellichampe or the maiden. He now purposely 
led the tory from his object, trusting to his good fortune or his 
wit tor relieve him from all subsequent emergencies. 

It does not need that we should show how, in the prosecu- 
tion of his scheme, the adroit negro contrived to baffle the vin- 
dictive Barsfield. He led him from place to place, to and fro, 
now here, now there, and through every little turn and wind- 
ing of the enclosure in front of the dwelling, until the patience, 
of the tory became exhausted, and he clearly saw that his 
guide had deceived him. For a moment his anger prompted 
him to prosecute the punishment with Avhich he had sought at 
first to intimidate the negro. But a fear of the infiuence of 
such a proceeding upon the maiden induced a more gentle de- 
termination. 

It was not, probably, the intention of Barsfield to carry 
into effect the threatened doom — his design was rather te pro- 
cure the required intelligence by extorting a confession. He 
was now persuaded, so well had Scipio played his part, that 
the fellow was really ignorant. Finding that his long pas- 
sages invariably led to nothing, he dismissed him with a hearty 
curse and kick, and hurried away to join Clayton, avIio, mean- 
while, had been busied in the examination of the garden. The 
lieutenant had not been a whit more successful than his caj)- 
taiii ; for Mellichampe, the moment that he heard the pursuit 
tending in the quarter where he had concealed himself, simply 
moved away from his lair, and, leaping the little rail fence, 
which divided the garden from the forest, found himself 
almost immediately in the shelter of a dense body of woods, 
which would have called for five times the force of Barsfield to 

5 ** 


106 


MKLLTCHAMPE. 


ferret liim out in at night. Familiar of old with the region, 
which had been consecrated in the walks and worship of love, 
he strolled off to a favorite tree, not thirty yards from the 
fence, in an arm . of which, sheltering himself snugly, he lis- 
tened with scornful indifference to the clamors of that hot pur- 
suit which the tory still continued. He saw the torches bla- 
zing in the groves where he had crouched but a little while 
before, and almost fancied that he could distinguish at inter- 
vals the features of those who bore them, and sometimes even 
the lineaments of that one deadliest enemy, whom of all the 
world he most desired on equal terms to encounter. 

The chase was at length given over. Barsfield was too 
good a scout himself not to know that the woods in tbe rear 
of the garden must contain the fugitive. He was quite too 
familiar, however, with the nature of a Carolina thicket to 
hope for any successful result of pursuit and search in that 
quarter. And yet he still looked with straining eyes upon its 
dense and gloomy spots, as if longing to penetrate them. Had 
he been strong enough in men — could he even have spared 
the force which he had under his command for any such pur- 
pose, he would not have hesitated for an instant ; but, under 
existing circumstances, the risk would have been rash and 
foolish, to have exposed so small a body of men to the possi- 
bility of contact with a lurking enemy. He little knew that 
the particular foe was alone — and that, even at the moment 
when these meditations were passing through his mind, his 
hated rival sat looking composedly down upon the unavailing 
toil of his long pursuit. How many circumstances were there 
in his past history to make him detest the fugitive ! How 
many interests and feelings, active at the moment in his bosom, 
to make him doubly desire to rid himself of one so inimical — 
so greatly in his way ! He turned from the garden in a bitter 
mood of disappointment. The fever of a vexing fear and of a 
sleepless discontent was goading him with every additional 
moment of thought, and kept him from all appreciation of the 
beauty of the rich flowers and those sweet walks which, in the 
intercourse of Mellichampe and Janet, had made a fitly associ- 
ated scene. He felt lothin^ of the garden’s beauties — its 


THE TRAIL LOST. 


107 


sweet solemnity of shade — its refreshing fragrance"- its slen- 
der branches and twining shrubs, that quivered and mur- 
mured in the niglit breeze; or of that exquisite Art in the dis- 
position of its groves and flowers, which, concealing herself in 
their clustering folds, peeps out only here and there, as if in 
childlike and innocent sport with her sister Nature. 

Having made his camp arrangements for the night, Barsfield 
left Clayton in command of the troop, still occupying the park 
as at their coming, and proceeded once more to the dwelling. 
Mr. Berkeley awaited his approach at the entrance. The old 
gentleman was in no little tribulation. The presence of Mel- 
llchampe at such a time in his grounds, and under circum- 
stances which seemed to indicate the privity of one or more of 
the household to his visits, was calculated, he well knew, to 
make Barsfield suspicious of his loyalty. It was his policy, 
and he was solicitous to prove to the toiy that the youth re- 
ceived no manner of encouragement from him ; that his presence 
was unlooked-for, and, if not contrary to his commands, was at 
least without his sanction. He also well knew the aim of 
Barsfield with reference to his daughter, and it was not less 
his object, on this account, to impress the-tory with the idea 
of his own ignorance on all subjects which concerned the rebel. 
In tremulous accents, confusedly and timidly, he strove to win 
the ear of his sullen and dissatified guest. 

“ I am truly happy — Ah ! I mean I am very sorry. Captain 
Barsfield — ” and here he paused — the words were too contra- 
dictory, and his first blunder frightened him; but Barsfield, 
who also had his game to play, came to his relief by inter- 
rupting him in his speech. 

“ Sorry for what, Mr. Berkeley ? What should make you 
sorry 1 You have nothing, that I can see, to be sorry for. 
Your house is haunted by a rebel, and, though you' may not 
encourage him, and I suppose do not, I yet know that hitherto 
you have been unable to drive him thoroughly away. It is 
your misfortune, sir, but will not be a misfortune much longer. 
You will soon be relieved from this difficulty. My force in a 
short time will be adequate to clear the country in this quarter 

the troop of ofttliers that haunt it ; and this duty, sir, I have 


108 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


now in charge. Leave it to me to manage the youngster — I 
shall make my arrangements for his capture, and he can not 
long escape me. Once taken, he troubles neither^of us again, 
He swings for it, sir, or there is no law in the land.” 

This discourse confounded the old gentleman. He was 
not unwilling to be thought free from any collusion with 
Mellicharnpe, but the youth was a favorite. The bitter 
speech of Barsfield, and the final threat, totally unmanned 
his hearer, and he exclaimed, in a voice made tremulous by his 
emotion — 

“What! Ernest Mellicharnpe — hang Ernest Mellicharnpe, 
captain ? Why, what has the poor youth done?” 

“Done!” exclaimed the other; “done, Mr. Berkeley? 
Why, sir, is he not one of that traitorous brood of Max Melli- 
champe, who was so fierce an enemy of his king ; so merciless 
in fight, and so uncompromising in whatever related to this 
struggle? I had the good fortune to serve my sovereign, as. 
you know, by killing him ; and, from what has been shown to 
me of this young man, I shall do my country no less a service 
by sending him after his father.” 

“ Oh, ay, captain — but that was in fight. Of course Ernest, 
if he lifts arms against our sovereign, must take his chance 
like any other soldier in battle, but ” 

“ He has incurred another risk to-night, Mr. Berkeley — he 
has penetrated into my line of sentinels as a spy.” 

The tory silenced the well-intentioned speaker. They en- 
tered the hall, where Blonay still sat, alone, and in as perfect 
a condition of quiet as if there had not been the slightest 
uproar. Glancing his eye quickly around the apartment, and 
seeing that none other was present, Barsfield approached the 
half-breed with a look of stern severity, and, laying his hand 
upon his shoulder, he thus addressed him : — 

“ Hark’ee, fellow ; you pretend to be a good loyalist — you 
have got Proctor’s certificate to that effect — why did you 
not seek to take the rebel, when you were so much nigher 
the entrance than any one of the rest? Did you not see 
him?” 

“M^ell, cappin, I reckon I did see him wh^i he looked into 


THE TRAIL LOST. 


l\)h 

tlie glass, but I didn’t knou that he was a rebel. I didn’t see 
no harm in his looking in the glass.^’ 

“But when I moved — when I pursued — did you not see 
that he was my enemy ?” 

“ That’s true, cappin ; but that was jist the reason, now, I 
didn’t go for’ad. I seed from your eyes that he was your 
enemy, and I know’d from what you did you wanted to git a 
lick at him yourself, and so I wouldn’t put in. Every man 
paddle his own canoe, says I ; and, if I has an enemy, I 
shouldn’t like to stand by and let another man dig at liis throat 
to spile my sport, neither would you, I reckon. It’s no satis- 
faction for one man to jump between and take away another 
man’s pleasure, as I may say, out of his mouth.” 

The code of Blonay was new to Barsfield, though, from its 
expression, he at once well understood the prevailing char- 
acter of the speaker. It was for Barsfield to desire that his 
enemy should perish, no matter by whose hands — the passion 
of Blonay prompted his own execution of every deed of per- 
sonal vengeance, as a duty incumbent on himself. A few 
words farther passed between them, in which the tory hoped 
ho had secured the services of the half-breed, of whose value 
he had conceived a somewhat higher idea from the strange 
reason which he had given for his quiescence in the pursuit of 
Mellichampe. This over, the tory captain signified his deter- 
mination to retire, and, with a cordial “ Good night !” to his 
host, he left the room, and was instantly conducted to his 
chamber. 

Meanwhile, in the apartment of the two cousins, a far dif- 
ferent scene had been going on. There, immersed in her own 
fears and apprehensions, Janet Berkeley listened in momently- 
increasing terror to every sound that marked the continued 
pursuit of her lover. As the clamor drew nigh or receded, 
her warm imagination depicted the strait of Mellichampe ; 
and it was only when, after the departure of Barsfield for the 
night, when her father could seek her chamber, that she heard 
the pleasing intelligenee of the tory’s disappointment. It was 
then that the playful Rose, as she saw that the apprehensions 
of her cousin were now dissipated, gently reproached Janet 


110 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


for the want of confidence which she had shown in not un- 
folding to her the secret which the excitement of the preceding 
event had too fully developed. 

“ To carry on a game of hide-and-seek so slyly, J anet ■ — to 
have a lover, yet no' confidant — no friend, and I, too, so near 
at hand. I who have told you All, and kept nothing hack, and 
would have locked up your secret so closely that no rival, no 
mama, no papa, should have been the wiser. And such a fine 
subject for talk^ Janet, in these long, sweet summer nights — 
now, when all is quiet, and there is nothing of a cloud, dear, 
to be seen. Look, dearest, see what a beautiful night.” 

“ I have no heart for it. Rose — none. I am very unhappy,” 
vas the sad response of the afilicted maiden. 

“ Serve you right; you deserve to be sad, Janet, if only for 
being so sly and silent. Why, I ask you again, why didn’t 
you let me into the secret ? I could have helped you.” 

“ Alas, Rose, this secret has been too oppressive to me not 
to make me desire frequently to unfold it ; but, as I have no 
liope with my love, I thought better to be silent.” 

“And why, dearest,” exclaimed the other, “why should you 
h^ve no hope ? Why should your love never be realized ? 
Think you that Mellichampe is the man to play you false 'I” 

“No — oh no! He would not — he could not. He is too 
devoted — too earnest in all that he does and feels, ever to 
forget or deny. But it has been a sad engagement throughout 
— begun in sorrow, and strife, and privation, and carried cn 
in defiance of all danger, and with an utter regardlessness of 
all counsel. God knows, I so misgive these visits, that I 
should rather he would be false to me than that he should 
come so frequently into danger of his life.” 

“ Now out upon thee, cousin — how you talk ! This danger 
is the very sweetness, and should not he a dampener of love. 
If the man be what he should be, he will not heed, but rathei 
desire it, as in stimulating his adventure it will also stimulate 
his feeling and his flame. For my part, I vow that I would 
not have one of your tame, quiet, careful curs — your house 
hold husbands, who' would neither do nor dare, but squat 
purring like overgrown tabbies in the chimney corner, pass 


THE TRAIL LOSl. 


Ill 


away a long life of tedium in a protracted and monotonous 
liumming. If ever T get a lover, wliicli, Heaven knows, seems 
but a doubtful prospect at tins moment, I vow lie should have 
no quiet — he should be required to do just what you fret that 
Mellichampe is now doing. He should scale fences and walls, 
ford creeks wh#n there’s a freshet, and regularly come to visit 
me through the swamp ; and this he must prove to me that 
he has done, by a fair exhibition of his bespattered boots and 
garments. As for difficulties such as these frightening a lover 
from his purpose, I would not give my name for any lover 
who would not smile upon, while overcoming them.” 

In a sadder tone than ever, Janet replied to ti e playful 
girl, who continued to run on and interrupt her at intervals 
wherever her speech seemed more desponding than usual. 

“ It is not mere difficulties. Rose, but positive daxigers, that 
I dread for Ernest ; and, but that I know he will not heed my 
words in such a matter, I should utterly break with him, and 
for ever, if it were only to keep him aAvay from the risk into 
which he plunges with little or no consideration. Twice or 
thrice has he nearly fallen a victim to this same man, Bars- 
field, who has a desperate hatred toward him—” 

“ And a desperate love for you,” said the' other. 

“ Which is quite as idle. Rose, as the other is rash,” replied 
Janet, calmly, to the interruption. “Vainly have I implored 
him to desist — to forbear seeking or seeing me until the danger 
and the war are over ; and, above all, to avoid our plantation, 
where my father is too timid and too feeble to serve him when 
there is danger, and where I am certain that spies of the tories 
are always on the watch to report against any of the whigs 
who may be stirring.” 

“ And, like a good, stubborn, 'whole-hearted lover, Mclli- 
champe heeds none of your exhortations that Avoiild kcej) him 
away. Heaven send me such a lover ! He sliould come when 
he pleased, and, if I prayed him at all, it should be that he 
would only leave me when I pleased. I would not trouble him 
with frequent orders, I assure you.” 

“ Ah, Rose ! would I had your spirits !” 

“ Ah, Janet ! would I had your lover ! He is just the lover 


J12 


MKLLICIIAMPE. 


now, that I desire ; and these perils that he seems to seek, and 
this rashness of which you complain, commend him warmly 
to my imagination. Poor fellow! I’m only sorry that he 
should have his labor for his pains to-night; and must go back 
the way he came, without getting what he came for.” 

“ Heaven grant that he may. Rose !” said Ihe other, earn- 
estly ; ” but do you know that even this alarm will scarcely 
discourage Ernest Mellichampe ? He has promised to come 
to-night, and exacted my promise to meet him under the great 
magnolia. I am persuaded that he will keep his word, in 
spite of all the dangers that beset him. He is bold to hardi- 
hood, and I look not to sleep to-night until I have heard his 
signal.” 

“ Confess, confess, Janet, that you will sit up in the hope to 
hear it.” 

“Not in the hope to hear it. Rose, but I will sit up — at 
least for some time longer. I could not sleep Avere I to go to 
bed, under the anxiety which the belief that he will come 
must occasion in my mind. But you need not wait for me.” 

“I will not — I should be very peevish were I to hear a 
love-signal, and have no share in the proceedings. I am cer- 
tainly a most unfortunate damsel, J anet, having a heart really 
so susceptible, so very much at the mercy of my neighbors, 
without having one neighbor kind enough to help me in its 
management.” And thus, rattling on, the thoughtless girl 
threw herself upon her couch, and was soon wrapped in pleas- 
ant slumbers. Janet, sad and suffering, in the meanwhile 
turned to the open window, unconsciously watching the now 
rising moon, while meditating the many doubts and misgivings, 
the sad fears and the sweet hopes, of a true heart and a warm- 
ly-interested affection. 


SECRET PURrOSES. 


113 


' CHAPTER XIIL 

SECRET PURPOSES. 

Barsfield sought his chan.her, but not to sleep. Some ac- 
tive thought was in possession of his mind, operating to ex- 
clude all sense of weariness, and, indeed, almost to make him 
forget, certainly entirely to overlook, the previous fatigues of 
tlie day. He paced his room impatiently for several minutes 
before he perceived that the servant was still in waiting. 
When he did so, he at once dismissed him ; but, immediately 
after, called him back. 

“ Who’s that — Tony 

“ Yes, sa.” 

“Where does the traveller — the blear-eyed fellow — sleep 
to-night, Tony V* 

“ In de little shed-room, Mass Oappin. 

“ Does it lock, Tony ?” 

“ He hab bolt inside, sir.” 

“ *Tis well j take this ; you may go now.” 

He gave the negro, as he dismissed him, an English shilling, 
which called forth a grin of acknowledgment and a liberal 
scraping of feet. Alone the tory captain continued to pace up 
and down the apartment, absorbed seemingly in earnest medi- 
tation. But his thoughts did not make him forgetful of the 
objects around him. He went frequently to the windows, not 
to contemplate the loveliness of the night, but to see whether 
all was quiet in the little world below. His frequent approach 
to his own chamber-door, which he opened at intervals, and 
from which he now and then emerged, had a like object; and 
this practice was continued until all sounds had ceased ; until 
all the family seemed buried in the profound est slumber 


MELLICHA^IPK. 


all 

Cautiously, then, lie took his way from his own apartment, 
and proceeding through the gallery, he soon reached th i little 
shed-room to which Blonay had been assigned. He paused 
for a single instant at the entrance, then rapped lightly, and 
was instantly admitted. For a brief space the eyes of Blonay 
failed to distinguish the person of the intruder. A few embers 
m the fireplace, the remnants of the lighfcrwood brands which 
had shown him his couch, yielded a blaze, but one too imper- 
fect for any useful purpose. The voice of Barsfield, however, 
immediately enlightened the half-breed. 

“ A friend,” said the tory, in a tone low, carefully low, and 
full of condescension. “ A friend, and one who needs the ser- 
vices of a friend. I have sought you, Mr. Blonay, as I have 
reason to believe I can rely on you. You have the certificate 
of Major Proctor, a sufiicient guaranty for your loyalty ; but 
our brief conversation this evening has convinced me that y ou 
are able, as well as loyal, and just the man to serve my pur- 
poses.” 

The tory paused, as if in expectation of some answer; and 
Blonay, so esteeming it, proceeded in his own way to the ut- 
terance of many professions, which might have been unneces- 
sarily protracted had not the ^patience of his visiter inter- 
posed. 

“ Enough ! I believe that you may be relied on, else I should 
not have sought you out to-night. And now to my business 
You heard me say I had an enemy V’ 

The reply was affirmative. 

“That enemy I would destroy — utterly annihilate — for 
several reasons, some of which are public, and others private. 
He is a rebel to the king, and a most malignant and unforgiv- 
i)ig cne. His father was such before him, and him I had the 
good fortune to slay. The family estate has become mine 
through the free grant of our monarch, in consideration of my 
gt)od services in that act. Do you hear me, sir?” 

“ Beckon I do, cappin,” was the reply of the half-breed. 

“ Ihen.you will have little difficulty in understanding my 
desire. This son is the only man living who has any natural 
claim to that estate in the event of a change of political cir* 


SECRET PURPOSES. 


115 


cuTRstances whicli sliall tlirow back tlie power of our sovereign. 
In sucli an event, be would be tbe proper heir ; and would, 
with reason, oppose bis claim to mine. That claim would be 
valid and inf‘'ntestable, most probably, under any change of 
circumstance^, were he once put out of the way. For this 
reason, if for none other, I would destroy him.” 

“ And reason enough,” responded Blonay, “ to kill a dozen 
rebels.” 

“ True ; but there are yet other reasons : he has aspersed 
me, denounced me to my face, on the commencement of this 
war, and under circumstances which prevented me from seek- 
ing any atonement. In arms I have never yet been able to en- 
counter him ; as, from his good knowledge of the swamp, he 
readily eludes my troop. He is, besides, attended by a fellow 
who watches over his safety, and follows and guards his every 
movement ; and there are few men who manage with so much 
si’ ill and adroitness as the man in question. _ He is only to be 
reached by one in a persevering search — one who would not 
turn an inch from his course, but, like the bloodhound, keep 
close upon the track without suffering anything, not even force, 
to divert him from his object. Such a man I hold you to 
be.” 

Blonay thanked the tory for his good opinion, and the lat- 
ter proceeded. 

“ You are for killing your enemy with your own hand. I am 
indifferent who kills mine, so that he ceases to trouble me. 
The man whe slays him for me is as much my instrument as 
the knife which, in your hand, does the good deed for you. 
Besides, even had I this desire, I could only pursue it at 
great sacrifice. I should be compelled to give up iny public 
duties, which are paramount. I should be compelled to go 
single-handed, and play the part of an outlier in the swanij)s 
along Avith those Avhom I attempt to overreach. I am too well 
knoAvn by them all ever to hope to win their confidence ; and the 
very nickname Avhich they ha\’e conferred upon me for my ad- 
herence to my sovereign, if repeated in my ears, as it would 
be by this taunting youth in question, would only drive my 
blood into a more foolish and suicidal rebellion than is theirs. 


116 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


Some other man — some single-hearted friend-pmiist avenge 
and rid me of my enemy. Will you be that man V’ 

“ Well, now, cappin, I should like to know more about this 
business; and the man — I should like to hear his name.” 

“ Mellichampe — Ernest Mellichampe, the son of .Colonel 
Max Mellichampe, killed at Monk’s corner in January last.” 

“ Why, I don’t know the man, cappin. I never seed him, 
and shouldn’t be able to make him out, even if I stumbled 
over him crossing a log.” 

“ That is no difficulty. I will give you marks and signs by 
which you can not fail to know him under any circumstances. 
You saw his face to-night. He came here to see — -and that 
is another reason for my hatred — he came here to see, not our 
troop, nor our disposition, nor with any reference to our war- 
fare, but simply to see the young lady of the house.” 

“What, the gal in black — her that looks so grand and so 
sweet ?” inquired Blonay, with some earnestness. 

“ The taller — ”the dark-eyed one — the daughter of the old 
man, Mr. Berkeley.” 

“ And you reckon there’s love atween them ?” curiously in- 
quired the half-breed. 

“Ay, such love as I would not have between them,” bitterly 
responded the other. “ I know that Mellichampe has long 
loved her, and I fear that she requites him in kind. This is 
another reason why I should hate him for I too — but why 
should I tell you this ? It is enough that I hate, and that I 
would destroy him. Here, Blonay, take this — it is gold — 
good British gold ; and I give it as an earnest of what you 
shall have if you will bring me the ears of my enemy. Take 
the swamp after him — hunt him by day and by nigbt; and 
when you can come and show me, to my satisfaction, that he 
troubles me no more, you shall have the sum doubled thrice 
Say that you will serve me.” 

He put five guineas into the hand of the unreluctant half 
breed, who at once deposited them from sight in a pocket ol 
his garment ; and yet, though he secured the money, Bloiia;^ 
paused before giving his answer. 

“ Why do you hesitate demanded the tory. 


SECRET PURPOSES. 


m 


“Well,” said the other, in his drawling fashion, “I don’t 
know, cappin, how one business can go with the other. I 
have, you see, a little affair of my own to settle with one of the 
rebels in Marion’s men, that’s rather like the business you wants 
me to go upon for you. Now, one must be settled ’fore the 
other ; and ’tan’t in natur, when a man’s blood’s up, that he 
should turn away from his own enemy to go after another 
man’s. I’m on trail of my enemy now, and I should be sorry 
to drop it, I tell you ; and, ’deed, cappin, I can’t, no how.” 

Bar.sfield was still prepared to meet the difficulties suggested 
by his proposed instrument. 

“ You need not give up one pursuit in taking up the other. 
It is fortunate for us that our enemies are both in the same 
drive. They are both men of Marion, and, in tracking one, 
the probability is that you can not be very far from the other. 
Indeed, for that matter, the one will be most likely to help you 
to the other, as the squad of Marion must now be greatly re- 
duced, and he can not consequently venture to scatter them 
much. This is no difficulty, but rather an advantage.” 

Blonay was silenced, if not convinced on this point. He 
did not reply, but seemed for a few moments lost in deliber- 
ation ; at length, breaking the silence abruptly, he spoke of 
another, and seemingly a foreign feature of the affair. 

“And you say, cappin, that there’s love atween him and 
the young gal of the house — Miss Janet, as they calls her?” 

“Yes ! but what is that to you?” replied the other, sternly. 
“ It matters nothing whether they love or hate, so far as our 
business lies together. You are to labor to make that love 
fruitless, if so be there is love, but without troubling yourself 
to know or to inquire into the fact.” 

“Why, yes, that’s true,” responded the other; “it don’t 
matter this way or that, and ” 

They were interrupted at this moment by a distinct and 
repeated whistle, — just such a signal sound as had preceded 
the appearance of Mellicbampe at the window of the hall. 
The tory put his hand upon the wrist of Blonay, while he 
bent forward his ear to the entrance — muttering to himself ' 
moment after, as he again heard the signal : — 


118 


MKLLICHAMPE. 


“ Now, by Heaven ! but this- is audacious beyond example. 
Tlie rebel is back again ; a scare bas no effect upon him, and 
notliing but shot will. Stay !” he exclaimed ; “ hear you 
nothing 

“ A footstep, cappin ; I think a foot coming down the steps.’' 

And, even as he said, they both distinctly heard, the next 
moment, the tread of a foot cautiously set down, moving 
toward the back entrance of the house. Barsfield imme- 
diately sprang to the window of the apartment, and beheld, in 
the dim light jufft then bringing out the trees of the ground 
and garden into soft and shadowy relief, a slender figure 
stealing away toward the garden, carefully keeping as much 
as practicable in the shelter of the huge water-oaks that ob- 
scured the alley. A mingled feeling of exultation and anger 
spoke in his tone, as he exclaimed : — 

“ I have him now — the doe shall bring him to the hunter 
— he shall not escape me now ! Hark you, Blonay, wait me 
here ! I will get my sabre, and be with you instantly. It will 
be hard if we can not manage him between us. But there must 
be no stir — no noise ; what we do must be done by stratagem 
and our own force. Get yourself ready, therefore ; your knife 
will answer, for your rifle will be of little use in the thick 
shrubbery of that garden. We must sneak, sir; no dove- 
hunting without sneaking.” 

With these words, Barsfield left the apartment of the half- 
breed and proceeded to his own. The feelings of the former, 
however,' scarcely responded to the sanguinary words of the 
latter. When alone, his soliloquy, brief and harsh, was yet 
new, seemingly, to his character. Hated and harried as lie 
had been by all before, he had for the first time in his life been 
touched with the influence of a gentler power ; and, muttering 
to himself during the absence of the tory, he disclosed a bettei 
feeling than any that we have been accustomed to behold in 
him. 

“ If the gal loves him, and he loves her, I won’t spoil the 
sport atween ’em. She’s a good gal, and had me to come to 
supper at the same table, when the cappin spoke agin it. She 
didn’t laugh at me, nor stare at my eyes, as if I Avas a wild 


SECKKT PUKP<:fn<:S. 


IJIO 

varmint ; and she spoke to me jist as she spoke to other people. 
Adrat it ! he may cut his enemy’s throat for himself, I sha’n’t; 
hnt then 1 needn’t tell him so, neither;” and, as he spoke, he 
twirled the little purse of guineas in his pocket with a feeling 
of immense satisfaction. In a moment after Barsfield return- 
ed, and led the way cautiously by a circuitous track towaid 
the garden. 

Let us now retrace bricSy the steps have taken, and ob- 
serve the progress of s'>me other of the Deraons in our narrative. 


12C 


V.'.KLU0HAM!’E. 


^JHAPTER XIV. 

THUairiSCREW IN PRACTICE. 

We have seen, pending the pursuit, that Mellichampe had 
s(»olly kept his way through the garden until he reached the 
forest that lay immediately behind it. Here he paused — he 
felt secure from any night search by such a force as that undei 
Barsfield. A huge gum, that forked within a few feet of its 
base, diverging then into distinct columns, afforded him a tol- 
erable forest seat, into which, with a readiness that seemed to 
denote an old familiarity with its uses, the fugitive leaped with 
little difficulty. The undergrowth about him was luxuriant, 
and almost completely shut in the place of his concealment 
from any glance, however far-darting, of that bright moon 
which was now rising, silently above the trees. 

But a sharper eye than hers had been upon the youth from 
the first moment of his flight from the garden. The trusty 
Thumbscrew was behind him, and a watcher, like himself. 
He had hurried from the conference with Humphries; and, 
heedful of his friend, for whose safety he felt all a parent’s 
anxiety, he had pressed forward to the plantation of Mr. Berke- 
ley, and to those portions of it in particular which, as they had 
been frequently traversed by both of them before, he well 
knew Avould be the resort of Mellichampe now. Still, though 
resolute to serve the youth, and having no more selfish object, 
he did not dare to offend him by exposing his person to bis 
sight. He arrived at a convenient place of watch just as the 
pursuit of Barsfield was at its hottest. He saw the flight of 
the fugitive from the garden, and, himself concealed, beheld 
him take his old position in the crotch of the gum. His first 


THUMBSCREW IN PRACTICE. 


121 


impulse was to advance and show himself ; but, knowing the 
nature of his companion well, he felt assured he should only 
give offence, and do no service. His cooler decision was to lie 
snugly where he was, and await the progress of events. 

At length the torches disappeared from the garden, and it 
was not long after when the lights seemed extinguished in the 
house — all but one. A candle, a pale and trembling light, 
was still to be seen in one window of the d^yelling, and to this 
the eyes of Mellichampe were turned with as fond a glance as 
ever Chaldean shepherd sent in worship to the star with which 
he held his fate to be connected. The light came from the 
chamber of Janet Berkeley. It was the light of love to Melli- 
champe, and it brought a sweet promise and a pleasant hope 
to his wai*m and active fancy. 

Not long could he remain in his quiet perch after beholding 
it. He leaped down, glided around the garden-paling, and 
took his way to the park' in front, keeping on the opposite side 
of the fence which divided the ground immediately about the 
dwelling from the forest and the fields. The fence, as is com- 
mon to most fences of like description in the luxuriant regions 
of the south, was thickly girdled with brush, serving admirably 
the purpose of concealment. Pursuing it with this object, in 
all its windings, he at length approached the park where the 
British troops were encamped. Well and closely did he scan 
their position ; and, with the eye of a partisan, he saw witli 
how much ease a force of but half the number, properly guided, 
might effect their discomfiture. He did not linger, however, 
in idle regrets of his inability; but, moving around the chain 
of sentries, he ascertained that their position had undergone 
no alteration, and felt assured that he could now penetrate tlie 
garden safely. This done, he made his way back to the place 
of his concealment. 

In the examination which he had just taken, he had been 
closely watched and followed by the faithful Thumbscrew. 
The movements of the youth regulated duly those of his at- 
tendant. When the former lialted, the latter fell back behind 
the brush, advancing when he advanced, and checking his own 
progress whenever the dusky shadow of Mellichampe appeared 

6 


122 


MELLICHAMPE. 


to linger even for an instant in the. moonlight. He escaped 
detection. He played the scout with a dexterity and ease that 
seemed an instinct, and hovered thus around the footsteps of 
his daring friend throughout his whole progress, to and fro, in 
the adventures of that night. 

From the outside to the inside of the garden was hut a step, 
and in a trice Mellichampe went over the fence. Watching 
heedfully until the youth was out of sight, and hidden within 
its intricacies, Thumbscrew followed his example, and was 
soon wending after him, close along its shady alleys. A dense 
and double line of box, which, from having been long un- 
trimmed, had grown up into so many trees, afforded an admi- 
rable cover ; and, pausing at every turning, he looked forth 
only sufficiently often to keep the course of the lover for ever 
in his sight. 

In the meantime, Mellichampe made his way to the garden 
entrance. Here he stopped with an unwonted degree of pru- 
dence, for which Thumbscrew gave him due credit ; he forbore 
to press forward, as the latter feared he might do — seeking to 
cross the court, which, though interspersed with trees, was yet 
not sufficiently well covered to afford the necessary conceal- 
ment. Keeping within the garden, therefore, he gave the 
signal, the first sounds of which chilled and warmed with con- 
tradictory emotions the bosom of the sweet maiden to whose 
ears it was addressed. The breath almost left her as she 
heard it, and she gasped with her apprehensions. 

“Too — too rash, Ernest!” she exclaimed in a low tone, as 
it reached her ears, and her hands were involuntarily clasped 
together. “Too rash — too daring — too heedless, for me as 
for thyself. Ah 1 dearly indeed am I taught how much you 
love me, when you make these reckless visits, when you wan- 
tonly brave these dangers 1 But I must go I” she exclaimed, 
hurriedly, as she heard the signal impatiently repeated ; “ I 
must go — I must meet him, or he will seek me here. He will 
rush into yet greater dangers ; he will not heed these soldiers ; 
and his old hatred to Barsfield, should he have distinguished 
him to-night, will prompt him, I fear me much, to seek him 
out even where his enemies are thickest.” 


THUMBSOKEW LN PRACTICE. 


123 


Thiis soliloquizing, slie approaclied the couch where Ilos« 
Duncan was sleeping. 

“Rose — Rose!” She called to her Muthout receiving any 
answer. Assured that she slept, Janet did not seek to disturb 
her ; hut, after a hurried prayer, which she uttered while kneel 
iug by the bedside, she rose with new courage, and, witlioir. 
further hesitation, unclosed the door, passed into the corridor,* 
and descended to meet her daring lover. Little did she dream 
that the eyes of hate and jealousy were upon her ; that a ma- 
lignant foe was no less watchful than a fervent lover ; that 
one stood in waiting, seeking her love, and, at the same time, 
no less earnestly desirous of the heart’s blood of her lover ! 

She emerged into the court, which she hurried over incau- 
tiously, and was received by Mellichampe at the entrance of 
the garden. He took her to his arms — he led her away to 
the shelter of the great magnolias that towered in a frowning 
group from its centre ; and the joy of their meeting, in that 
season and country of peril, almost took away the sting and 
the sorrow wliich had followed their separation, and now ne- 
cessarily came with their present dangers. The happiness of 
Mellichampe was a tumult that could only speak in broken 
exclamations of delight ; that of Janet was a subdued pleasure 
— a sort of bright, spiritual, moonlight gleam, that came steal- 
ing through clouds, mingled with falling drops, that were only 
not oppressive as they seemed to fall from heaven. 

“ Dear, dearest Janet — my own Janet — my only! — I have 
you at last; your hand is in mine — your eyes look into my 
own. I can not doubt that you are with me now. I believe 
it — I know it, by this new-born joy which is beating in my 
heart. Ah, dearest, but for that tory reptile, this rapture would 
have been mine before. But you are here at last, and, while 
you are with me, I will not think of him. I will think of 
nothing to vex ; I will know but one thought, but one 
feeling — the long-cherished, dearest of all, Janet — the feel- 
ing of adoration, of devoted love, which my bosom bears for 
you.” 

The youth, as he spoke, had clasped her hands both in his,, 
and his eyes looked for hers, which were cast down upon the 


124 


MPU.LTCIIAAIPE. 


grass below them. When she looked up, and they wot hii 
glance, he saw that they were glistening with tears. 

“ You weep — you weep, Janet. I vex you with my love— 
you are unhappy. Speak — say to me, dearest, wtiat new 
affliction — what new sti’ife and sorrow? What do these 
tears mean 1 Say out ! I am used to hear of evil ; it will not 
disturb me now. Is there any new stroke in store for me? 
Do not fear to name it; anything, only, only, Janet, if I am 
to suffer, let it not be your hand which is to deal it,'’ 

“ Tliere is none ; none that I have to deal ; none that 1 know 
of ” 

“ Then there is none ; none that should trouble me ; none 
that should make you weep. No tears, Janet, I piay you. 
We meet so seldom, that there should be no cloud over our 
meeting. See, love, how clear, how beautiful is this night ! 
There were several clouds hanging about the moon at her 
rising, but they are all gone, and now hang like so much 
silver canopy above her head : she is almost full and round ; 
and there is something of promise in her smile for us — so, 
dearest, it appears to me. Smile with me, smile with her. 
my beloved, and forget your griefs, and dismiss your tears.” 

“ Alas, Ernest ! how can I smile, when all things alarm me 
for you ? The pursuit to-night--your vindictive enemy, 
Barsfield, — oh, Ernest, why will you be so headstrong — so 
rash ?” 

“ There is no danger. I fear him not, Janei ; but he shall 
learn to fear me : he does fear me, and hence it is that he 
hates and pursues me. But the fugitive will turn upon his 
pursuer yet. The time is coming, and, by the God of heav- 
en ” 

She put her band upon bis arm, and looked appealingly into 
his eyes, but spoke not. 

“ Well, well, say nothing: forgive me, dearest ; I will speak 
no more of him ; I will not vex you with his name — you are 
now sufficiently vexed with his presence. But the time will 
come, Janet, and, by Heaven — if I mistake not greatly 
Heaven’s justice — it can not be far oflT, when he shall render 
me a fearful account of all his doings tf and mine. He 


THUMBSCREW IN PRACTICE. 


125 


has now the power — the men, the arms, hut there will be 
some lucky hour which shall find him unprovided, when ** 

She again appealed to the youth, whose impetuosity was 
again becoming conspicuous. 

“ You promised me, Ernest.” 

“ Forgive me, dearest — I did promise you, and I will forbear 
to speak of the reptile ; hut my blood boils when I but hear 
his name, and I forget myself for the moment.” 

“ Ah, Ernest, you are but too prone to forgetting.” 

“Perhaps so, Janet: your charge is true; but you I never 
forget ; my love for you goes along with every thought, and 
forms a part of the predominant mood, whatever that may be. 
Thus, even when I think of this man, whose name inflames 
my blood until I pant for the shedding of his, one of the influ- 
ences which stimulates my anger is the thought of you. lie 
comes between us ; he fills your father’s mind with hostility to 
me, and he seeks you, Janet, he seeks you for his own.” 

“ Nay, Ernest, why should you think so 1 He has made no 
avowal ; and I am sure the regard of my father for you has 
undergone no change.” 

“ It is so, nevertheless ; and your father is too weak and too 
timid, whatever may be his affections, to venture to maintain 
opinions in hostility to those who command him when they 
please. He has denounced me to your father, that I know ; 
he seeks you, I believe; and much I fear me, Janet, your 
father will yield to his suggestions in all cases, and both of us 
will become the victims.” 

As the youth thus addressed her, the tears departed from 
her eyes, and the expression which followed upon her face was 
calm and pleasantly composed. There was no rigidity in its 
muscles ; each feature seemed to maintain its natural place ; 
and her words were slow, and uttered in the gentlest tones. 

“ Have no fear of this, Ernest, I pray you. Should this 
man, should my father, should all, so far mistake me, as to 
entertain a thought that I could yield to a union with Barsfield, 
do not you mistake me. I will not vow to you, Ernest ; I have 
no protestations to make, I know not how to make them ; but 
you will understand, and you will believe me in the assurance 


126 


MELLICHAMPE. 


vvliich I now give you, that I can not hold my senses, and con* 
sent to any connection with the person you speak of.” 

“ Bless you, dear Janet, but I needed no such assurance. I 
only feared that you might be driven by circumstances, by 
trick, by contrivances, to make a sacrifice of yourself for the 
good of another.” 

“ Alas ! Ernest, I now know what you would say. You 
would tell me that my father, at the mercy of this man, as he 
is, may require me as the offering by which he is to be saved. 
God help me ! it is a strait I have not thought upon. I will 
not, I dare not, think upon it ! Let us speak no more of this.” 

Gloomily and sternly the youth replied : — 

“But you will think upon it, Janet; it may be required of 
you ere long. Think upon it, and provide your strength.” 

“ God forbid, Ernest ; God forbid ! Let me die first ! Let 
me perish before it becomes a question with me, whether to 
sacrifice peace, hope, the proper delicacy of my sex, and all 
that I live for, and all that I would love, to the safety of an 
only parent. Oh, how false I should be to promise love to a 
being whom I could only hate or despise ! What a daughter 
could I be, to resist the prayers of a father requiring me to do 
so ! Alas, Ernest, you bring me every form of trial. You 
make me most unhappy. You come rashly into the clutches 
of your deadly foe, and I tremble hourly, however I may 
rejoice when I hear that you are coming. I dread to see you 
perish before my eyes, under the weapons of these men ; and, 
when you come, what is it that I am compelled to hear ! what 
fears are before me ! what horrors ! Ah, if love be a treasure, 
if it be a joy to love and to be loved, it is so much the harder 
to think hourly of its loss, and of its so unguarded condition. 
Better not to feel, better to be hollow-hearted and insensible, 
than thus continually to dread, and as continually to desire — 
to fear with every hope, and to weep even where you would 
smile the most.” 

She buried her face in his bosom as she spoke, and her sobs 
were audible. His arm gently supported while enclasping her, 
and her afflictions greatly tended to subdue the impetuous 
character of his previous mood. He replied to her fondly, in 


TIIUMBSCEEW IN PRACTICE. 127 

those low tones which only the rich sensijbility Cran understand, 
and the generous, warm spirit, employ iinderstandingly. 

“And yet, dearest, those very sorrows have a sweetness. 
Privation, pain, denial, even the lost love, Janet, are nothing 
to the choice spirit which has faith along with its sympathy. 
What consoles me ? What has consoled me in the perils and 
the pains, the losses and the sorrows, which I have undergone 
in this warfare, and within the last two years ? My confidence 
in you; my perfect faith that, however desolate, poor, denied, 
and desperate, however parted hy enemies or distance, I was still 
secure of your love ; I still knew that nothing, no, not even death, 
my Janet, could deprive me of that. If you have that con- 
fidence in me, my beloved, these sorrows, these trials, are only 
so many strengtheners. You will then find that the sorrows 
of love, borne well and without despondence, are the sweetest 
triumphs of the true affection. They are the honors which 
time can never tarnish ; they are the spoils which last us for 
ever after. Janet, if, like you, I doubted, if I did not feel 
assured of your unperishing truth, I should rush this night, 
madly, and with hut one hope of death, upon the swords of 
these tory-troopers. I should freely perish under your eyes, 
with but one prayer, that you might be able to behold me to 
the last.” 

“ Speak not thus !” she exclaimed, with a shudder, looking 
around her as she spoke ; “ and do not think, Ernest, from what 
I have said, that I have not the same perfect faith in you that 
you feel in me; but I despair of all our hope. I am truly a 
timid maiden, and I am always fancying a thousand woes and 
soiTOWs. I can not dare to believe otherwise than that our 
loves are unblessed ; I can not hope that we shall realize them ; 
and oh, Ernest, your rashness, more than all things beside, 
tends to confirm in me these apprehensions. Why will you 
come to me when your enemies are abroad ? Promise me, 
dear Ernest, to fly from this neighborhood until the danger has 
gone over. There is no dishonor — none.” 

“Ay, but there is, Janet; but of this we need say nothing. 
I could tell you much of friends, and good service to be done, 
but may not. Let us speak of more pleasant matters : of our 


128 


MELLiUHAMPE. 


hopes, not of our fears ; of our joys, not of our sorrows ; of the 
future, too, in exclusion of the present.*’ 

And thus, loving and well beloved, the two discoursed to- 
gether; she sadly and despondingly, but with a true devoted- 
ness of heart throughout ; and he, warm in all tilings, impetu- 
ously urging his love, his hope, his hatred to his enemies, his 
promises of vengeance, and his fixed determination to pursue 
the war in the neighborhood, in spite even of her solicitations 
that he should fly to a region of greater security. 

Thumbscrew, meanwhile, had been anything but remiss in 
his guard. He had cautiously pursued his youthful associate, 
keeping close upon his heels, yet narrowly watching to avoid 
discovery. Though a bold and daring man, he yet esteemed the 
feelings and desires of Mellichampe with a sentiment of respect 
little short of awe ; the natural sentiment of one bfought up as 
he had been, to regard the family of his wealthy neighbor as 
superior beings in many respects. Apart from this, the quick, 
impetuous spirit of the youth exacted its own observance ; and, 
as his commands had been positive to his comrade not to at- 
tend him, and urged in a manner sufficiently emphatic to en- 
force respect, the more humble companion felt the necessity 
of seeming submissive at least. We have seen that his regard 
trampled over his obedience, and it was well perhaps that it 
did so. It was not long that Thumbscrew had maintained his 
watch, before his quick ear detected the approach of footsteps. 
He ventured to peep out from his bush, and he Avas able to see 
the distinct outline of the intruder’s person. He saw him ap- 
proach the long alley in which he himself was sheltered, and 
within a few paces of the lovers ; and he immediately changed 
his own position. Barsfield — for it was he — came on, passed 
the spot which sheltered the scout, and, stealing heedfully 
around a clump of orange, made his way to the rear of the 
thick bower in which Janet and Mellichampe were seated. 
The scout tracked him with no less caution and much more 
adroitness. He placed himself in cover, and coolly awaited 
the progress of events. The impatient spirit of Barsfield did 
not suffer him to wait long. The tory, it is probable, heard 
something of the dialogue between the two, and his movement 


THUMBSCREW IN PRACTICE. 


129 


seemed prompted at the particular moment when it took place 
by some remark of j\lellichampe, which, from the exclamation 
of Barsfield as he rushed upon the youth, had touched the eaves- 
dropper nearly. Leaping forward from behind one of the mag- 
nolias where he had been screened, with drawn sword, and a 
movement sufficiently hurried to pass the ground which sepa- 
rated them in the course of a few seconds, he cried to his rival 
in a bitter but suppressed tone of voice — 

“ You shall pay dearly for that lie, Mellichampe !” 

In the next moment, a buffet from an unseen hand, that 
might have felled an ox, saluted his ear, and he stumbled un- 
harmingly forward at the feet of the man whom he had sought 
to slay. 

“Save me — oh, Ernest, save me! Fly, fly! — away, Er- 
nest — it is Barsfield !” 

Screaming thus, at the first alarm, the maiden clung to the 
youth, and trembled with affright. He, on the instant, had 
drawn his dirk, and putting her aside almost sternly, threw 
himself upon the half-stunned person of the tory : but his hand 
was seized by the watchful attendant. “ Let me fix him. Air- 
nest, boy ; I knows how to manage the varmint.” 

“ You here, Witherspoon V* demanded the youth. 

“As you see him, Airnest — but take care of the gal, and 
send her safe home and quietly to bed. Ax pardon. Miss 
Janet, for scaring you, but ’twas the only way to manage the 
critter ; but you had better run now, while I put what I calls 
my screwbolt upon the tory’s jaw. Airnest, boy, let me have 
your handkerchief, since I may. want another. There !” 

With his knee upon the bosom of the tory, he busied himself 
meanwhile in bandaging his mouth. The intruder did not 
submit quietly, but began to show some few signs of dissatis- 
faction. His movement provoked an additional pressure of the 
knee of his assailant upon his breast, while the huge handker- 
chief which was employed upon his mouth, as he endeavored 
to cry out, was thmst incontinej^ly into it. He was a child in 
the hands of his captor. .. 

“Easy, now, Mr. Barsfield — he quiet and onconsarned, and 
no harm shall come to you ; but, if you’re at all opstropolous, 

6 * • 


130 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


I shall be bound to take up a stitch or two in your jaw here, 
that’ll be mighty disagreeable to both of us. Airnest, now, 
boy, don’t stop for last words, but let’s be off, or we’ll have all 
the cubs looking after the great bear. I’ll hold the lad quiet 
till you see the ga^ safe to the gate, but don’t go farther.” 

He kept his word and his good-nature, in spite of all the 
struggles of his prisoner. Once, and once only, he seemed to 
become angry, as the tory gave him something more than the 
customary annoyance j but a judicious obtrusion of a monstrous 
knife, which was made to flash in the moonlight before the 
eyes of the captive, was thought sufficient by the scout in the 
way of exhortation. 

** It’s a nasty fine piece of steel, now, captain, and if you 
gives me much more trouble I shall let you have a small taste 
of its qualities ; so you had better lay still till I lets you off, 
which won’t be long, for you’re of no more use to me here than 
a dead ’possum in a hollow thirty miles off. If I had you in 
the swamp, now, I could drive a little trade in your skin. I 
could swap you for some better man than yourself ; but I’m 
your friend here, for, to say the gospel truth to you, captain, 
if I didn’t stand between you and Airnest Mellichampe, you 
wouldn’t see what hurt you : he’d be through you like a ground- 
mole, though in much shorter time ; and there wouldn’t be an 
inch of your heart that his dirk wouldn’t bite into. But you’re 
safe, you see, as you’re my prisoner-— the captive, as they used 
to say in old times, of my bow and spear — though, to be sure, 
it was only my fist that did your business.” 

It was thus that, like a good companion as he was, Thumb- 
screw regaled the ears of his prisoner with a commentary upon 
the particulars of his situation. In the meantime, Mellichampe 
conducted, or rather supported, the maiden to the garden en- 
trance. When there she recovered her strength, as she per- 
ceived that he designed attending her to the dwelling. This 
she resisted. 

“No, Ernest, no! — risk no more! I will not see — I will 
not suffer it. Let us part now^in danger still, as we have 
ever been. In sorrow let us separate- alas ! I fear, in sorrow 
to meet again, if again we ever meet.” 


THUMHSCKKW IN PliAOTlCK. 


131 


“Speak not tlius,” lie replied, hoarsely. “Why these sad 
misgivings? is our love so much a sorrow, my Janet?’' 

“ Sorrow or pleasure, Ernest, it is still our love — a love that 
I shall die in, and fear not to die for. But do not linger, I 
pray you : remember that Witherspoon is waiting for your re 
turn before he can release that man.” 

“Release him !” was the stern exclamation, and a fierce but 
suppressed laugh of bitterness fell from the lips of Mellichampe 
with the words. 

“Ay, release him, Ernest. What mean you by those words 
— that laugh? Surely, surely, Ernest, you do not mean him 
harm ?” ' 

“Would he not harm us? has he not harmed me already? 
Janet, you must remember — I had a father once.” 

“I do — I do; but oh, Ernest, dismiss your thoughts, which 
I see are fearful now. Promise me, Ernest, that you will do 
this man no harm.” 

Her hand earnestly pressed his arm as she entreated him 
He was silent. 

“Ernest,” she exclaimed, solemnly — “Ernest, remember 1 
the hand of Janet Berkeley can never be won by crime.” 

He released her hand, which till this moment he had held. 
There was a strife going on within his bosom. She gazed on 
him suspiciously, and with terror. 

“ I leave you, Ernest,” she whispered, “ I leave you ; but do 
that man no harm.” 

There was a solemnity in her tones that rebuked his thoughts. 
She was leaving him, but turned back with a gentler tone — 

“ I doubt you not, dear Ernest ; I doubt you not now. For- 
give me that I did so for an instant; and oh, Ernest, come not 
again into this neighborhood till these men are gone. Promise 
me — promise me, dear Ernest.” 

What would not love promise at such a moment? Melli- 
champe promised — he knew not what. His thoughts were 
elsewhere; and he felt not, that, in kissing her cheek as they 
parted, his lips had borne away her tears. 


MELLICHAMPR. 




CHAPTER XV. 

A FRIENDLY HITCH. 

During the momentary absence of Mellichampe, his trusty 
associate had been equally busy with himself. He had com- 
pletely gagged his prisoner with a handkerchief of no common 
dimensions, and not remarkable for the delicacy of its texture. 
He had finished this labor with a facility that was marvellous, 
and seemed to speak loudly for his frequent practice in such 
matters. This done, he took his seat composedly enough upon 
the body of the tory, and in this manner awaited the return of 
Mellichampe. 

Barsfield, meanwhile, though at first a little uneasy and op- 
streperous, soon found it necessary to muster all his philosophy 
in the endurance of an evil that seemed unavoidable for the 
present. The huge, keen knife of the woodman glared threat- 
eningly in his eyes, and he saw that his efforts to escape, in 
more than one instance already, had provoked an expression 
of anger from his captor, who at other moments seemed good- 
natured and indulgent enough. The tory consoled himself, 
however, with the thought that Blonay could not be far off ; 
and that, having made the circuit of the garden, as it had been 
appointed to him to do, he would soon come to his assistance 
and release. With this reflection, though burning for vengeance 
all the while, he was content to keep as quiet as was consistent 
with a position so very uneasy and unusual. 

The fierce mood of Mellichampe was in action on his return : 
there was a terrible strife going on within his heart. A san- 
guinary thirst was striving there for mastery, opposed strongly, 
it is true, but not efficiently, by a just sense of human feeling 
not less than of propriety. But there was no calm delibera- 


A FRIE>.'I)I,Y Iirrcil. 


1^3 


tion, and liis jassions triumplied. All liis more violent and 
vexing impulses were active in dictation- His eye was full 
of desperate intention : liis liand grasped liis bare dagger, and 
his movement was hurried toward the prisoner, whose eye 
turned appealingly to that of Witherspoon. The latter had 
his own apprehensions, hut he had his decision also. He saw 
the manner of Mellichampe’s approach ; he understood directly 
the dreadful language which was uttered from his eye, though 
sleeping upon his lips ; and he prepared himself accordingly 
to encounter and resist the movement which the glance of his 
comrade evidently meditated. 

He was scarcely quick enough for this. A sudden and fierce 
bound, like that which the catamount makes from his tree 
upon the shoulders of his approaching victim, carried the form 
of Mellichampe full upon the breast of the tory, who strove, hut 
vainly, to shrink away from beneath. The impetuous movement' 
half displaced the woodman. In another moment the weapon 
must have been in the throat of the tory, but for the ready 
effort and athletic arms of Witherspoon. He grasped the 
youth from behind. His embrace encircled completely, while 
securing him from the commission of the deed. 

“ Release me, Witherspoon,” cried Mellichampe to his com- 
panion, while the thick foam gathered about his lips and half 
choked his utterance. 

“ I’ll be G — d denied if I do, Airnest,” was the decisive 
reply. The youth insisted — the woodman was inflexible. 

“ You will repent it, Witherspoon.” 

“ Can’t be helped, Airnest, but I can’t think to let you go to 
do murder. 'Taint right, Airnest ; and dang my buttons if any 
man that I calls my friend shall do wrong when I’m standing 
by, if so be I can keep his hands off.” 

“ Shall this wretch always cross my path, John Wither- 
spoon ? — shall he always go unpunished ? Does he not even 
now seek my life — his hands not yet clean from the blood of 
my father? Release me, Witherspoon — it will be worse if 
you do not.” 

“ That’s my ook-out, Airnest, I know ; it’s the risk I runs 
always, and it’s no new thing. But, Airnest, I can’t let yoa 


134 


MKLLIOHAMPE. 


go, oiiless j oil promise not to use your knife. The fellow de- 
sarves the knife, I reckon ; but, you see he’s a prisoner, and 
can’t do nothing for himself. It ain’t the business of a sod- 
ger and a decent man to hurt a critter that can’t fend off.” 

“ A reptile — a viper, who will sting your heel the moment 
you take it from his head !” 

Maybe ; but he’s my prisoner, Airiiest.” 

“Why, what can you do with him? — you can’t carry him 
with 3^ou?” 

“ No, Airnest ; but that’s no reason that I should kill him.” 

“ What will you do with him ?” inquired the youth. 

“ Leave him here — jist where he is, on the flat of his back, 
and mighty oncomfortable.” 

“ Indeed ! — to pursue us, and by his cries, direct his hounds 
upon our heels? Let him rise, rather — give him his sword, 
and let him fight it out with me in the neighboring wood.” 

“Not so fast, Airnest — that’ll be a scheme that would only 
hobble both of us, and I’m not going to risk any such contri- 
vance. I have a much better notion than that, if you’ll only 
hear to reason ; and all I axes of you is, jist to keep your knife 
ready at the chap’s throat, but not to use it onless he moves 
and gits obstropolous. Say you’ll do that now, while I takes a 
turn 01* two upon my shadow, and I’ll let you loose.” 

The youth hesitated. The woodman went on— 

“ You mought as well, Airnest, I’m not guine to loose you 
onless you says you won’t hurt the critter. Say so, Airnest, 
and I’ll fix him so he can’t follow us or make any fuss.” 

Finding that his companion was inflexible, and most prob- 
ably somewhat subdued by this time, and conscious of the crime 
he had striven to commit, Mellichampe consented, though still 
reluctantly, and the moment after he was released. The 
woodman rose and began to make some farther preparations 
for the securing of his prisoner. Meanwhile, with his knee 
firmly fastened upon the breast of the tory, and his dagger up- 
lifted and in readiness, the eyes of the youth were fastened 
w'ith all the demon glare of hatred and revenge upon those 
^f the man below him. The feelings of Barsfield under such 
circumstances were anything but enviable. Accustomed to 


A. FRIENDLY HITCH. 


135 


judge of men by bis own nature, lie saw no reason to feel 
satisfied that Mellicliampe would keep the promise of forbear- 
ance which he had made to his companion ; and yet he dread- 
ed to exhibit emotion or anxiety, for fear of giving him suf- 
ficient excuse for not doing so. His emotions may well be 
inferred from the natural apprehensions of such a situation; 
and his base soul sunk into yet deeper shame, as he lay trem- 
bling beneath his enemy, dreading the death which was above 
him, and which he well knew he so richly deserved. 

But Thumbscrew was considerate, and did not long keep 
the tory in suspense. In the few moments in which he had 
withdrawn himself from the person of the prisoner, he had 
made sundry arrangements for better securing him; and, with 
a cord of moderate length, which he had drawn from a capa- 
cious pocket, he constructed a running noose, or slip-knot, with 
which he now approached the prisoner; speaking in a low 
tone of soliloquy all the while, as much, seemingly, for Bars- 
field’s edification as for his own. 

“ I will jist make bold, Oappin Barsfield, to give you a hitch 
or two in the way of friendship. You shall have as fast bind- 
ing a title to this little bit of a bed as time and present sar- 
cumstances will permit. It’s only for your safe keeping and our 
safe running, you See, that I does it. I’ll hitch up your legs — 
there, don’t be scared, they shall go together — to this same 
bench here ; and that, you see, will keep them from coming 
too close after ours. And as for the little bandage over your 
arms, why, you’ll have to wear it a little longer, though it’s 
too good a rag for me to leave behind. There — don’t jerk or 
jump now, for it will soon be done. I’m mighty quick fixing 
such matters as these, and it takes me no time to hitch up a 
full-blooded tory when once I gits my thumb and forefinger 
upon him. There.” 

Thus muttering, he lashed the legs of the prisoner to one 
.)f the rude seats under the magnolias ; and, freeing his com- 
panion from the further restraints of his watch, the two pre- 
pared to start— Witherspoon, unseen by Mellichampe, having 
first possessed himself of the sword of the tory, which he ap- 
propriated with all the composure of a veteran scout. They 


136 


MELLICHAMPE. 


soon found tlieir way out of the garden, through the darkest 
of its alleys, and they could not have gone far into the forest 
when Blonay, who seemed to have timed his movements with 
admirable accuracy, approached the spot where Barsfield lay 
struggling. The tory was completely in toils — his feet and 
hands tied securely, and his mouth so bandaged that hut a 
slight moaning was suffered at intervals to escape him in his 
efforts at speech. With well-acted zeal and a highly becom- 
ing indignation, Blonay, as soon as he discerned the situation 
of his employer, busied himself at his release. Enraged at 
the humiliation to which he had been subjected, and at the 
escape of his enemy, Barsfield demanded why he had not come 
sooner. But to this the other had his answer. He had fol- 
lowed the tory’s directions, and had kept the lower fence of 
tlie garden Avinding into the woods, and had crossed it at a 
point which had been designated for him ; by which it had 
been Barsfield’s hope, that, flying from him, the fugitive must 
be encountered by his coadjutor. 

“ You went too far round,” said the commander, sullenly ; 
“and yet they are but a few moments gone. You say you 
have not seen them ?” 

The answer was negative. 

“ It is strange : but, by G — d, it shall not always be thus. 
Come with me, sir ; I will talk with you in my chamber.” 

And they retired to confer upon the scheme which the tory 
had proposed to Blonay just before the adventure of the garden. 

We will noAv leave them and return to the fugitives, who 
were already far away upon their flight to the spot Avhere their 
horses had been hidden. The first words of Mellichampe to 
his companion were those of reproach — 

“ Why did you follow me when I forbade it, John Wither- 
spoon 1 ” 

“Well, now, Airnest, I think that’s no sort of a question 
seeing the good that’s come of my following.” 

“ lYue, you have served me, and perhaps saved me ; but 
what Avill Janet think of me when she recovers from her fright 1 
She will think I brought you there, and that you overheard 
wliat passed between us.” 


A FRIENDLY HITCH. 


187 


“Well, slie’ll think wrong, Ainiest, if she does. It’s true, I 
did hear a good deal, hut that was owing to the necessity of 
being close upon the haunches of that other chap. As a true 
man, Airnest, I never wanted to hear, and I did not get close 
enough to hear, till tliat skunk come out from behind the pear- 
tree, and I saw him sneaking round to the magnolias. Then 
it was I came out too, and only then it was I heard the talk 
between you.” 

“ It matters not now, Witherspoon ; my fear is that it may 
pain Janet to suppose that my friends are brought to overhear 
that language which a young lady should only think to herself, 
and can only utter to one ; and no motive of regard for my 
safety, though so far warranted by circumstances as upon tlie 
present' occasion, should have prompted you to do so.” 

“ But I had another reason, Airnest, that is a good reason, I 
know. Just after I left you came one of Marion’s road-riders, 
Humphries, you know, calling in the scouts; and you’re 
wanted, and I’m wanted, and we’re all of us wanted, for there’s 
to be a power of the tories gathering in two days at Sinkler’s 
Meadow, and the ‘ fox’ is mighty hungry to git at ’em. I have 
the marks and the signals, and we must push on directly. 
It’ll take us three good hours more to work our way into the 
swamp.” 

“ Ah ! then we have little time to waste,” was the prompt 
reply ; and, scouring down the road, they came to the broken 
branch which lay across the path, and indicated by its own 
the position of its fellow. Following the directions given by 
Humphries, they were soon met by the line of sentinels, and 
the path grew cheery after a while, when the occasional chal- 
lenge, and the distant hum and stir of an encampment, an- 
nounced the proximity of Marion in his wild swamp dwelling 


13S 


MKLLICIIAMPK. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE TORY CAPTAIN AND THE LADY. 

The reflections of Barsfield were by no means consolatory 
or grateful on his return to the mansion. A few moments were 
devoted to Blonay, of whom the tory felt perfectly secure, and 
the two then separated for the night, seeking their several 
chambers. In the morning the latter was up betimes, and, 
descending to the breakfast-room, the first person who encoun- 
tered his glance was the fair Janet Berkeley. 

She Avas alone. A slight flush overspread her cheek as he 
entered the apartment ; but he was not the person exactly 
Avho could greatly disturb her equanimity. Her eye was cold 
and unshrinking, and her courtesy as easy, unconstrained, and 
distant as ever. The case was widely different Avith him. 
He started as he beheld her — turned aAvay without the 
usual salutation — then, suddenly conscious of his rudeness, 
he wheeled round, as if about to charge an enemy, confronted 
her valiantly enough, and boAved stiffly, and ^vitli evident 
effort. For a few moments no word passed betAveen the tAA^o, 
and this time was employed by Barsfield in pacing to and fro 
along the apartment. At length, muttering something to liim- 
ielf, the sounds of which Avere only just audible to the maiden, 
he Avalked into the corridor, looked hastily around, and then 
quickly, as if he wished to anticipate intrusion, re-entered the 
room, and at once approached the maiden. 

“ Miss Berkeley,” he said, “ it is unnecessary that I should 
remind you of last evening’s adventure. The circumstances 
can not have been forgotten, though the singular composure of 


THE TORY CAPTAIN AND 'I' HE LADY. lo'J 

your countenance tliis morning would seem to imply a strange 
lack of memory on your part, or a far stranger indifference to 
its intimations.” 

He paused, as if in expectation of some reply, and slie did 
not suffer liim long to wait. Her response was instantaneous, 
and lier equable expression of countenance unbroken. 

“ There is nothing strange, sir, I believe, if you will consider 
well the subject of which you speak. I know of no circum- 
stances so strong in my memory which should disturb my 
composure, however some of them may affect yours. Are you 
not sujffering from some mistake, sir?” 

“ Scarcely, scarcely, Miss Berkeley,” he exclaimed, hur- 
riedly ; “ though, I must confess, your reply astounds me not 
less now than your composure at our first meeting. Will you 
pretend. Miss Berkeley, that you were not in the garden at a 
late hour of last night ?” 

“ I saw, sir, that you must labor under some mistake, and 
ouch is certainly the case when you presume to examine me 
thus. But I will relieve the curiosity which seems to have 
superseded all your notions of propriety, and at once say that 
1 was in the garden last night.” 

“ 'Tis well — and there you saw another.” 

“ True, sir. I then and there saw another.” 

“A rebel — a lurking rebel. Miss Berkeley.” 

“A brave man, a gentleman, an honest citizen, sir. My 
friend — my father’s friend — ” 

“ Say not so, for your father’s sake. Miss Berkeley, I pray 
you. It would greatly endanger the safety of your father, 
were it known in the councils of Cornwallis that the son of the 
notorious Max Mellichampe was his friend ; and still more, 
were it known that they were in intimate communion.” 

“ I said not that. Captain Barsfield, I said not thatj' was 
the hasty reply of Janet, in tones and with a manner that 
showed how much she apprehended the consequences which 
might arise from such an interpretation of her remark. Bars- 
field smiled when he saw this, as he felt the consciousness of 
that power which her words had given him over her. She 
continued ; “ Do not, I pray you, think for a moment that my 


140 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


father knows anything of the visits of Mr. Mellichampe. He 
came only to see me — ” 

Tlie tory interrupted her with a sarcastic smile and speech ; 

“ And I am to understand that the dutiful Miss Berkeley 
consents to receive the visits of a gentleman without the con- 
currence, and against tlie will, of her father? A dilemma, is 
it not. Miss Berkeley?’’ 

“ I will not submit to be questioned, sir,” was her prompt 
repl}’^ ; and her eye glanced a haughty fire, before which that 
of the lowly-bred tory quailed utterly. “You again mistake 
me, sir, and do injustice to my father, when you venture such 
an inquisition into my habits. I am free, sir, to act as my own 
sense and discretion shall counsel. My father is not unwilling 
that I should obey my own tastes and desires in the selection 
of my associates, and to him alone am I willing to account.” 

Slie turned away as she spoke, and busied herself, or seemed 
to busy herself, with some of the ajBPairs of the household, with 
the object, evidently, of arresting all farther conversation 
But with the pause of a few moments, in which he seemed to 
be adjusting in his own mind the doubt and difficulty, Bars- 
field put on an air of decision, and readvanced to the maiden. 

“ Hear me but a few moments. Miss Berkeley, and be not 
impatient ; and, should any of my words be productive of 
annoyance, I pray you to overlook them, in consideration of 
the difficulties whicli, as you will see, may soon lie before 
you.” 

“ Difficulties ! — but go on, sir.” 

“ I need not say that I was a witness to your conference 
with this young man last night.” 

“You need not, sir,” was her reply, with a manner that gave 
life to the few words she uttered. A scowl went over the 
tory’s face, obscuring it for a moment, but he recovered in- 
stantly. 

“I heard you both, and I felt sorry that you should have 
risked your affections so unprofitably.” 

The maiden smiled her acknowledgments, and he proceeded. 

“ Fortunately, however, for you at least, such ties as these, 
particularly where the parties are so young as in the present 


THE TORY CAPTAIN AND THE LADY. 


141 


instance, are of no great strength, and are seldom durable. 
They can be broken, and usually are, with little detriment to 
either party.” 

“ I purpose on my part, sir, nothing of the kind,” was her 
cool reply, inteiTupting him, as he was about to continue in a 
speech of so much effrontery, and which was so little grat- 
ifying to his auditor; “1 purpose not to try the strength or 
durability of any of the ties which I have made, Captain 
Barsfield.” 

“But you will. Miss Berkeley — you must, as soon as you dis- 
cover that such ties are unprofitable, and beyond any hope of 
realization. The man with whom your pledge is exchanged 
is a doomed man!” 

“How, sir? — speak!” 

“ He fights with a halter about his neck, and his appearance 
last night in the neighborhood of my troop is of itself suffi- 
cient for his condemnation, as it leads to his conviction a« 
a spy I” 

“ I can share his doom. Captain Barsfield, though I believe 
not that such is within your power. I can not think that Lord 
Cornwallis has conferred upon yOu any such authority.” 

“ This parchment, this commission, and these more expres- 
sive orders. Miss Berkeley, would tell you even more — would 
tell you that your own father is at my mercy at this very mo- 
ment, as one, under your own avowal, privy to the presence of 
a rebel as a spy upon my command. My power gives me ju- 
risdiction even over his life, as you might here read for your- 
self, were not my words sufficient.” 

“ They are not — they are not,” she exclaimed hastily, and 
trembling all over. “ I will not believe it ; let me see the 
paper.” 

“Pardon me, Miss Berkeley, but I may not now. It is suf- 
ficient for me that I know the extent of my power and its 
limits. It is not necessary that I should unfold it.” 

“ I will not believe it, then — I will not trust a word that you 
have said. I can not think that the British general can have 
thought a thing so barbarous — so dishonorable.” 

“It is so, nevertheless, Miss Berkeley; but there will bo 


1 


MELLTCiTTAMPE. 


little or no danger to the father, if the daughter will listen tc 
reason. Will you hear me ?” 

“ Can I do less, Captain Barsfield 1 — go on, sir.” 

“ I accept the permission, however ungraciously given. 
Hear me, then. These vows — the ties of childhood, and re* 
straining none hut children — can hardly be considered, when 
circumstances so bear against them. have a perfect knowl- 
edge of all the circumstances between yourself and this rebel 
Mcdlichampe.” 

“ You have not said, sir, and I marvel at the omission, with 
what wonderful ingenuity your knowledge was obtained.” 

“ Your sarcasm is pointless. Miss Berkeley, when we know 
that a time like the present not only sanctions, but calls for 
and commands, all those little arts by which intelligence of 
one’s enemies is to be obtained. Is it my offence or my good 
fortune, to have heard more than concerned the cause for which 
I contend 1 Certainly not my offence ; it is for you to say 
how far it may be for my good fortune.” 

“To the point — to the point. Captain Barsfield, if you 
please.” 

“ It is quite as well,” he responded, with a sullen air of 
determination, as the impatient manner of Janet showed how 
unwillingly she listened : “ ’tis quite as well that I should — 
and all I ask from you now. Miss Berkeley, is simply that you 
should heed and deliberate upon what I unfold, and make no 
rash nor ill-considered decision upon it. First, then, let me 
say, that your father is in my power — but in mine alone. I 
am willing to be his friend henceforward, as I have been here- 
tofore. I am able and desirous to protect him, as well against 
the rebels as from the injustice of such loyalists as might pre- 
sume upon his weakness to do him wrong ; but I am not suf- 
ficiently his friend or my own enemy, to do all this without 
some equivalent. There must be a consideration.” 

He paused ; and, as the maiden perceived it, she spoke, while 
a smile of the most provoking indifference, suddenly, though 
for a moment only, curled the otherwise calm and dignified 
folds of her lips — 

“ I can almost conjecture what you would say, Captain 


THE TORY CAPTAIN AND THE LADY. 


148 


Barsfield ; but speak on, sir, I pray you. Let there be an end 
of this.” 

“ I can scruple little to say out what you assume to have 
conjectured so readily. Miss Berkeley ; and I speak my equiv- 
alent the more readily, as you seem so well prepared to hear it. 
You, then, are the equivalent for this good service, Miss Berke- 
ley. Your hand will be my sufficient reward, and my good 
services shall ever after be with your father for his protection 
and assistance.” 

“ Think of something else. Captain Barsfield,” she replied, 
with the utmost gravity; “something better worthy of the 
service — something better suited to you. I am not ambitious, 
sir, of the distinction you would confer upon me. My hopes 
are humble, my desires few; and my father — but here he 
comes. I will speak of this affair no further.” 

And she turned away with the words, just as the old man, 
entering, met the baffled tory with some usual inquiry as to 
the manner in which he had slept, and if his bed had been 
pleasant; and all with that provoking simplicity that was 
only the more annoying to Barsfield, as it brought the com- 
monest matters of daily life into contrast and collision with 
those more important and interesting ones, in the discussion 
and urging of which he had but a few moments before been so 
earnest. He replied as well as he could to the old gentleman^ 
who complained bitterly of his own restlessness during the 
night, and of strange noises that had beset his ears, and so 
forth — a long string of details, that silenced all around, with- 
out the usual advantage which such narrations possess, toward 
nightfall, of setting everybody to sleep. But the signal was 
now given for breakfast, and the lively Rose Duncan made 
her appearance, bright and smiling as ever ; then came Lieu- 
tenant Clayton; and lastly, our old acquaintance Blonay. 
Breakfast was soon despatched, and was scarcely over when 
Barsfield, who had given orders for his troops to move, took 
Mr. Berkeley aside. Their conversation was long and earnest, 
though upon what subject remained, for a season at least, 
entirely unknown to the household, Janet, however, could 
not but remark that a deeper shadow rested upon the visage 


144 


MELLICIIAMPE. 


of her father ; and even Rose Duncan, playful and thoughtless 
as she ever was, complained that during the whole day her 
uncle had never once asked her for a song, or challenged her 
to a game at draughts. 

“ Something wrong, Janet,” she exclaimed to her com- 
panion, after freely remarking upom the condition of things ; 
“ something wrong, I’m certain. This tory lover of yours is 
at the bottom of it.” 

And, without pausing for reply, she whirled away in all the 
evolutions of the Meschianza, humming, like some errant bird, 
a wild song, that did not materially disagree with the capri- 
cious movement. Janet only answered with a sigh as she 
ttsccnded to her chamber. 


THE HALF-BXKED TRAILS HIS ENEMY. 


145 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE HALF-BREED TRAILS HIS ENEMY. 

Barsfield ordered a guard of ten men, and prepared to ride 
over to the “ Kaddipah” plantation — the reward of his good 
services in the toiy warfare. The distance between the two 
places was but five miles; and, in the present prostrate con- 
dition of Carolina affairs, ten men were deemed quite ade- 
q late for his protection. They might not have been, had the 
“ swamp fox” been warned of his riding soon enough to have 
prepared a reception. Clayton was left in charge of the troop ; 
and in no very pleasant humor did the tory proceed to leave 
tlie mansion of Mr. Berkeley. He had not, of late years, been 
much accustomed to contradictions of any sort ; and his 
recent elevation, as an officer of the British army, tended still 
more to make him restiff under restraint or opposition. He 
was disappointed in the effect which he had promised himself 
to produce upon the mind of Janet Berkeley, from a display 
of the power of which he was possessed, and still more annoyed 
at the cool, sarcastic temper which she had shown during their 
conference. Her frank avowal of the interest which she felt 
ill Mellichampe — the calm indifference with which she listened 
to his remarks upon the nocturnal interview with her lover — 
and the consequences of that interview to himself — these 
were all matters calculated to vex and imbitter his mood, as 
he rode forth from the spot in which they had taken place. 
His manner was stern, accordingly, to his lieutenant, Clayton, 
while giving him his orders, and haughty, in the last degree, 
to the men under him. Not so, however, was his treatment of 
Blonay, whom he heard calling familiarly to his dog, and who 

7 


14G 


MELLICHAMPK. 


now stood ready, about to mount his tacky, as if going forth 
with himself. 

“You go with me, Mr. Blonay was his question to the 
half-breed, uttered in the mildest language. 

“ Well, cappin, I reckon it’s best that I should go ’long with 
you ’tell I can hear something of Marion’s men. When I 
hears where to look for ’em I reckon I’ll leave you, seeing it’s 
no use for me to go scouting with a dozen.’ 

“ You are right,” was the response ; “ but fall behind till I 
send the men forward ; I would have some talk with you.” 

Blonay curbed his pony, called in his dog, and patiently 
waited until, sending his men forward under a sergeant, Bars 
field motioned him to follow with himself. 

“ You were sadly at fault last night, Mr. Blonay,” was the 
first remark which he made to the half-breed, as they entered 
upon the avenue ; “ it is to be hoped that you will soon do 
better.” 

“’Tworn’t my fault, cappin — I did as you tell’d me,” was 
the quiet answer. 

“ Well, perhaps so; you are right, I believe. I did send 
you too far round. That confounded garden holds several 
acres.” 

“ Five, I reckon,” said the other. Barsfield did not heed 
the remark, but abruptly addressed him on the subject which 
was most active in his thoughts. 

“ You hold your mind, Mr. Blonay, I presume, for this adven 
turel You will undertake the business which I gave you in 
hand 1 You have no fears — no scruples 1” 

“ Well, I reckon it’s a bargin, cappin. I’ll do your business 
if so be I kin, and if so be it doesn’t take me from my own. 
I puts my own first, cappin, you see, for ’twould be agin natur 
if I didn’t.” 

“ You are perfectly right to do so ; but I am in hope, and I 
believe, that you will soon find our business to lie together 
It the enemy you seek be one of Marion’s men, so ismy enemy . 
should you find one, you will most probably get some clew to 
the other j and the one object, in this way, may help you to 
both.” 


THE HALF-BREED TRAILS HIS ENEMY. 147 

“And you think, cappin, that Marion’s men is in these 
parts?” 

“ Think ! — I know it. The appearance of this youth Melli- 
champe, with his cursed inseparable Witherspoon, as good as 
proves it to me. Not that they are strong, or in any force ; 
on the contrary, my letters tell me that the rebels have, in a 
great many instances, deserted their leader, and gone into 
North Carolina. Indeed, they say he himself has gone ; but 
this I believe not : he still lurks, I am convinced, in the 
swamp, with a small force, which we shall quickly ferret out 
when we have got our whole force together. To-morrow we 
go to meet our volunteer loyalists at ‘ Sinkler’s Meadow,’ 
where they assemble, and where I am to provide them with 
arms.” 

“There’s a-many of them to be there, cappin?” was the 
inquiry of Blonay. 

“ Two hundred or more. The wagons which you saw carry 
their supplies.” 

The tory captain, in this way, civilly enough responded to 
other questions of the half-breed, the object of which he did 
not see; and in this manner they conversed together until the 
guard had emerged from the avenue into the main road, and 
was now fully out of sight. Interested in giving to his com- 
panion as precise a description as possible of the person, the 
habits, and character of Mellichampe, which he did at intervals 
throughout the dialogue, Barsfield had moved on slowly, and 
had become rather regardless of the movement of his men, 
until, reaching the entrance of the avenue, he grew conscious 
of the distance between them, and immediately increased his 
pace. But Blonay did otherwise; he drew up his pony at this 
point, and seemed indisposed to go forward. 

“ Why do you stop ?” cried the tory, looking back over his 
shoulder. The answer of Blonay satisfied him. 

“I forgot something, cappin — the knife and the pass. T 
must go back, but I’ll be after you mighty quick.” 

Without waiting for the assent of his employer, he started 
off on his return, pricking the sides of liis pony with a degree 
of earnestness to which the little animal was not accustomed 


148 


MELLICITAMPE. 


and which he acknowledged by setting off at a rate which 
seemed infinitely beyond his capacities. Barsfield was satis- 
fied to call to him to follow soon ; and, putting the rowel to 
his own steed, he hurried forward to resume his place at the 
head of his men. 

But it was not the intention of Blonay to go back to the 
dwelling which he had so lately left. He Was practising a 
very simple ruse upon his companion. He had forgotten noth- 
ing — neither knife nor passport; and his object was merely to 
be relieved from observation, and to pursue his farther journey 
alone. He had a good motive for this ; and had resolved, with 
certain efficient reasons, which had come to him at the moment 
of leaving the avenue, to pursue a different route from that of 
the tory. 

After riding a little way up the. avenue, he came to a halt ; 
and, giving the tory leader full time, not only to reach his 
men, but to get out of sight and hearing with them, he coolly 
turned himself round and proceeded to the spot where they 
had separated. Here he alighted, and his keen eyes exam- 
ined the road, and carefully inspected those tracks upon it, a 
casual glance at which, as he rode out with Barsfield, had de- 
termined him upon the course which he had taken. He looked 
at all the horse-tracks, and one freshly made in particular. 
The identical outline of shoe, which he had so closely noticed 
on the battle-ground of Dorchester, was obviously before him ; 
and, remounting his horse, he followed it slowly and with cer- 
tainty. Barsfield more than once looked round for his ally, 
but he looked in vain ; and each step taken by both parties 
made the space greater between them. The half-breed kept 
his way, or rather that of his enemy, whom he followed with a 
spirit duly enlivened by a consciousness that he was now upon 
the direct track. 

In this pursuit the route of Blonay was circuitous in the ex- 
treme. He had proceeded but a mile or so along the main 
road, when the marks which guided him turned off into an old 
field, and led him to the very spot where we discovered Melli- 
champe and Witherspoon the day before. The keen eye of 
the half-breed soon discovered traces of a human haunt, but 


THE HALF-BRICED TRAILS HIS ENEMY. 


149 


uothiiig calculated to arrest liis progress, as the marks of tbif 
flying horseman were still onward. Obliquely from this point 
still farther to the right, he entered a dense forest. Here h^ 
made his way with difficulty, only now and then catching ths 
indent of the shoe. He soon emerged from the thick wood, i 
the path was then open. Here, too, he discovered that there 
liad been an assemblage of persons, as the ground, in a little 
spot, was much beaten by hoofs, and still prominent among 
tliem was that which he sought in chief. This encouraged 
him ; and, as the whole body assembled at the spot seemed to 
have kept together, he had no little difficulty in continuing the 
searcli. At length the road grew somewhat miry and sloppy 
Little bays at intervals crossed his path, through which the 
horsemen before him seemed to have gone without hesitation. 
The forests were now broken into hammocks, which were in- 
dented by small bodies of water. Here the cypress began to 
send up its pyramidal shapes ; and groves of the tallest cane 
shgt up in dense masses around it. The cressets lay green 
upon the surface of the dark pond, and the yellow and purple 
mosses of the festering banks presented themselves to his eyes 
in sufficient quantity to announce his proximity to the swamp. 

But to Blonay, thoroughly taught in all the intricacies of 
the “ cypress,” its presence offered no discouragement whatso- 
ever to the pursuit. At length, reaching an extensive pond, 
he lost all trace of the horses. He saw at once that they had 
entered the water ; but where had they emerged ? The oppo- 
site banks were crowded close to the water’s edge with the 
thickest undergrowth mingled with large trees, whose quiet 
seemed never to have been disturbed with the axe of the wood- 
man or the horn of the hunter. The wild vine and the clus 
tering brier, the slender but numerous canes, the gum-shoots, 
cypress knees or knobs, and the bay, seemed to have beer, 
welded together into a solid wall, defying the footsteps of anv 
invader more bulky than the elastic black-snake, or less vig- 
orous and well-coated than the lusty bear. 

Blonay saw the impervious nature of the copse ; but Jie also 
felt assured that the pursuit must lead him into and through it 
He saw that through it the men must have gone whose foot 


m 


MELLICHAMPE. 


rtepii he had followed, and he accordingly soon completed his 
resolves as to what he should himself do. He slowly led his 
horse hack to a spot of land the highest in the neighborhood. 
H aving done this, he fastened him to a shrub ; then sought 
out one of the loftiest trees, which he ascended with habitual 
£ ,1(1 long-tried dexterity. 

His elevation gave him a full and fine view of the expansive 
swamp before him. He looked down upon the pale, ghostly 
tops of the old cypresses, sprinkled with the green cedar, and 
here and there, where the sand was high enough to yield a bed 
Gutficiently spacious for so comprehensive a body, tbe huge and 
high shaft of the colossal pine. These all lay before him — 
their tops flat, gently waving under his eye beneath the slight 
wind passing over them, making a prospect not less novel than 
imposing. 

But Blonay. had no eye for the scene, and but little taste for 
the picturesque. He had sought his giddy perch for another 
purpose ; and he was satisfied with the result of his labor when, 
at the distance of six or eight hundred yards from the entrance 
of the swamp, he detected a slight wreath of smoke curling up 
from among the trees, and spreading around like some giant 
tree itself, as if in protection over them. He noticed well in 
what direction the smoke arose, and quietly descended from 
his place of elevation. 

Keeping this direction constantly in mind, he now saw that 
the persons he pursued must have gone into the pond, and kept 
in it for some distance afterward, emerging at a point not at 
that moment within the scope of his vision. He doubted not 
that, following the same course, he should arrive once more 
upon their traces at some point of outlet and entrance. 

To conjecture thus, was, with him, to determine. He touchc«l 
his pony smartly with his whip, and, whistling his dog to fol- 
low. plunged fearlessly into the pathless space, and his saddle- 
skrrts were soon dipping in the yellow water. He kept for- 
ward, however, through the centre of the pond, and was soon 
gratified to find some appearances of an opening before him 
On his right hand the pond swept round a point of land, ma- 
king into the copse, and forming a way which >yas impercepti- 


THE /RAILS HIS ENEMT^ 151 

ble at tlie place whence he had originally started. He dkC 
not scruple to pursue it ; and, passing through a narrow defilt 
of water, over which the vines ran and clambered, thrusting 
their sharp points continually in his face, and making his prog- 
ress necessarily slow, he at length ascended a little bank, and 
once more found the tracks which he had followed so fa: 
Giving his little pony a few moments of rest, he again set for 
ward ; and, after an arduous progress of an hour, he began tc 
hear sounds which imposed upon him the necessity of greater 
caution in his progress. The hum of collected men — their 
voices — the occasional neigh of the horse — the stroke of ihe 
axe — and now and then a shout — announced his proximity to 
the camp. 

He was now within a few hundred yards of one of the fa- 
mous retreats of “ the sw^mp-fox and, dismounting from his 
nag, which he carefully fastened in a secure place of conceal- 
ment, he went forward on foot, only followed by his dog; 
moving slowly, and scrutinizing, as he did so, every tree and 
bush that might afford shelter to an enemy. He still advanced 
until he came to a small creek, which wound sinuously along 
before him, and which now formed the only barrier between 
himself and the retreat of the partisans. He saw their steeds 
in gi-oups, fastened to the overhanging branches of the trees ; 
he saw the troopers lying at length in similar places of shel- 
ter — some busied in the duties of the camp and of preparation 
— some taking their late breakfast, and others moving around 
as sentinels, one of whom paced to and fro within thirty yards 
of the little copse from which he surveyed the scene in safety. 

It was while ga;zing intently on the personages constituting 
these several groups, that Blonay discovered his dog in rapid 
passage across a tree that lay partly over the creek which sep- 
arated him from the encampment. Attracted, most probably, 
by the good savor and rich steams that arose from a huge fire, 
over which our old acquaintance Tom was providing the crea- 
ture-comforts of the day, the dog made his way without look- 
ing behind him, and Blonay was quite too nigh the sentinels 
to venture to call him back by either word or whistle. Cursing 
the cur in muttered tones to himself, he drew back to a safer 


152 


MELLIOriAMPE. 


distance, still keeping in sight, however, of the entire circuit 
occupied by the partisans. 

Here he watched a goodly hour, taking care that no single 
lovement escaped his eye ; for, as he had now found out one 
I'f the secret paths leading directly to the haunt of an enemy 
so much dreaded as “ the swamp-fox,” he determined that his 
knowledge of all its localities should be complete, the better to 
enhance the value, and necessarily increase the reward, which 
he hoped to realize from its discovery to some one or other of 
the British leaders. Let us now penetrate the encampment 


THE HALF-RKERD TS WINDED. 


163 


0 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE HALF-BREED IS WINDED. 

The hiding-place of Marion was admirably chosen in all 
respects, whether as regards convenience or security. It was 
a high ridge of land, well timbered, narrow, and long, and run- 
ning almost centrally into the swamp. Two or three outlets, 
known only to the partisans, and these, as we have seen, in 
the one instance already described, intricate and difficult of 
access even to the initiated, were all that it possessed ; and 
here, secure from danger, yet not remote from its encounter, 
if circumstances or his own desires so willed it, “ the swamp- 
fox’’ lay with his followers during brief intervals of that long 
strife in which he contended for his country. 

His force was feeble at this period. It consisted only of the 
small bands of natives, gathered under local officers chiefly 
from the lower country, none of whom had ever seen what was 
called regular service. He had been deserted by all the con- 
tinentals with the exception of two, whom he had rescued from 
their British captors soon after the battle of Camden ; but, 
though thus few in number, and feeble in resource, the par- 
tisan® catching the full spirit of their leader, were never in 
active. 

In the camp, while Blonay looked out on all hands for his 
particular victim, the stir of preparation was heard by the over 
looking spy. Hurried orders were given, horses were put in 
preparation, swords were brandished, and rifles charged home. 
Amid all the bustle, there was still room for jest and merri 
ment. Like boys just let loose from school, the men playfully 
gambolled about among the forest avenues. Here, you saw a 
little party engaged in leaping ; there were othei^, hurling the 


154 


MELLIOHAMPE. 


bar; others, again, less vigorously limbed or winded, held sol*, 
emn conclave, in deeper thickets, busy in all the intricacies of 

old sledge*' (or seven up"), which, in that unsophisticated 
period, had not given place to hrag and polcer. 

Of all the groups and persons visible in the partisan camp, 
there was but a single individual who seemed in no way to 
participate in the moods and employments of the rest — whose 
thoughts were certainly foreign to all amusements. This'mel- 
iiicholy exception was no other than our philosophic epicure, 
’jieutenant Porgy. You behold him, where he sits upon a 
fillen tree, his belt undone, his sword across his lap, his elbows 
on his knees, his great chin within his palms, his eyes looking 
out vacantly and sadly, without seeming to perceive the groups 
or the sports around him. He sits in silence, for a wonder ; 
he has no soliloquies; and when he seems to be growing 
thoughtful, it is with such a disconsolate expression, that one 
apprehends some very serious misfortunes impending. Why 
should Porgy be sad ? Perhaps he has gone without his sup- 
per. The new swamps have probably failed in the treasures 
of terrapin which endeared those of the Ashley to his affec 
tibns. 

But Tom appears — the cook par excellence — and we look 
to him for explanation. There is no falling off of flesh in the 
case of Tom, or his master; and there is an unctuous — shall 
we call it greasy — appearance, about the mouth and cheeks 
of the negro, that will not permit us to think that he, at least, 
has suffered any recent diminution of his creature comforts. 
Now, we can not suppose that, where Tom can fiiid fuel for 
himself, his master will be permitted to sit without a fire. If 
Tom can procure hoe-cake and bacon for his own feeding, it 
is very sure that Porgy will not go without his suppeu’. His 
cause of trouble lies in some other quarter than the stomach. 
But Tom is about to clear his voice for speech, as his master 
looks up, inquiringly, at his approach. 

“ He’s beriy bad, maussa !” 

“Worse?” 

“ He’s berry bad, sah.” 

“ Worse, T[ say ?” 


THJC HALK-BRKBI) IS WINDED. 155 

“Hall! who kill say but heVse’f? Do hose haV de wise 
’fiictions (lis time, I ebber see !” 

“Will he die, Tom 

“Ef he no git better, inaussa, T ’spec’ de buzzard r.ab lir. ) 
chance for put up meat to-night.” 

“ You are yourself a buzzard, you rascal ; to speak in thi:' 
way of the condition of the beast ” 

“ Ki ! maussa, whey’s de ha’m ? [harin[ Hoss hah for dead 
jis like white man and nigger. You no bury hoss, like you 
bury man, and de buzzard hat) for git ’em 1” 

“ Tom, when you die, there shall be no v/eight of earth put 
upon you. You shall be laid out bare, just where the horse is 
laid — should you suffer him to die ! and I shall have a trum 
peter to sound a notice to all the buzzards, for fifty miles round, 
to attend your funeral.” 

“ Come, come, maussa ; ’twunt do for talk sich ting ! Tom 
nebber for bury when he dead 1 None but buzzard for ax to 
he fun’rel? and jis ’kaise you hoss gwine for dead, and no- 
body for help ’em I wha’ Tom kin do % He a’n’t hoss-doctor. 
’Speck, maussa, you better try Doctor Oakenburg. ’Speck he 
hab someting to gee de hoss. He can’t cure de man, when he 
sick ; may-be, he kin cure de hoss ! Better ax ’em, maussa.” 

“ What I are you such an enemy of the poor beast, Tom, 
that you want to subject him to new miseries ? What pleasure 
can you find in seeing such a beast as Oakenburg torturing 
such a beast as Nabob ? and you have fed and groomed Nabob 
for five years ! Have you no affection for an animal that you 
have been intimate Avith for so long a time ? You have ridden 
him a thousand times. He has borne you as tenderly as yoiii 
OAvn mother. Have you no gratitude, you rascal, that you 
wish to thmst one of Oakenburg’s decoctions into his stomach ?” 

“Oh! go ’long maussa; you too foolish! Hoav I want for 
gee de hoss misery ? I Avants for care ’em ! Da’s it ! I ’speck 
de physic, Avha’ de doctor mek’, Avill mek’ de hoss well — ” 

“ What ! though it kills the man ! Tom, I sometimes think 
you are half a fool at best. No, Tom ; Nabob must get well 
without help from Oakenburg, or he’s a dead beast. His Ltr.m* 
ach has always been a good one till noAv. It shall never be 


156 


MKI.LK^IIAMPK. 


defiled by any of Oakenbnrg’^ decoctions. But you, Toni, as 
a cook, and a good cook, ought to know wdiat’s good ^ven for 
the stomach of a horse. Medicine, itself, is only the proper 
sort of food for a morbid condition. Is there nothing now that 
you can think of, Tom, that the poor beast qan make out to 
eat. Think, old fellow ; think.” 

''I see dem gib hoss-drerich, mek’ wid. whiskey, and soot, 
and salt; but whay you gume git salt here for boss, and you 
no hab none for sodger'?’ 

“Where, indeed? The prospect is a sad one enough: — 
and you say, Tom, that all the salt is gone that came up last 
week from Georgetown ?” 

“Ebbry scrap ob ’em, maussa — no hab ’nough to throw on 
bird tail cf 3^011 want to catch ’em. Dis a bad country, Mass 
Porgy — no like de old C3^press, whay you can lap up ’nough 
salt from de swamp to cure you meat for de 3^ear round, and 
season you hom’ny by looking at ’em only tree minutes by the 
sun.” 

“And you know nothing, Tom, that will ease the animal?” 

“No, maussa, I see de buckrah gib drench heap time, but I 
nebber ax how he been mek.” 

“ Has Humphries come in yet, Tom ?” 

“ Long time, sir : he gone ober to Wolf island wid de major 
bout two hours ’go, and muss be coming back directly ; and, 
jist I speak, look at ’em, coming yonder, b}^ de big gum !” 

“ I see ! I see ! I must consult Humphries. You may go 
now, Tom, and see after 3^our own dinner. I feel hungiy, 
m3^6elf, in anticipation of a march that I feel that we shall be 
called upon to make hurriedly. Yet how to march if Nabob 
dies, it is difficult to conceive. Tom, unless you have some 
peculiar delicacy, you need prepare no dinner for me. That? 
least’s misery w'^on’t suffer me to eat. Go and see to him, 
Tom, and report to me how he gets on now.” 

Tom disappeared, and our fat friend rose from his sitting 
posture with the air of a man who had no longer any usae in 
the world. He was sufficient!}' sad to be thought melancholy, 
and half suspected it himself. 

** D — n the poor beast,” he muttered as he went : “ I can’t 


TIIK HALF-HRKKI) IS WINDED. 


- f.>y 

Lear to look at him. I can’t bear to look at the sufiferingc 
I can’t help. If by a fierce wrestle now, a hand-tc-hand fight 
with an enemy, or even a match-race on fcot with an Indian 
runner, I could do the creature a service, I could go to work 
cheerfully. Any physical or mental exertion now — no mat- 
ter of what sort — that would do him good, I would undertake 
with a sort of satisfaction. But only to look on, and do noth- 
ing, sickens me ; it may be because I raised the rascally beast 
myself!” 

Thus muttering to himself as he went, our epicurean moved 
slowly along by the several groups, taking the route toward 
Humphries, who was seen approaching on the edge of the island. 
The philosopher was too sad to enjoy the sports of others at 
this moment. But his boon companions, who knew his usual 
humors, find seldom witnessed his exceptional turns, were not 
disposed to permit his unnoticed progress. A dozen voices 
challenged his attention from all sides, all anxious to secure 
the company of a good companion. 

“I say. Lieutenant — Lieutenant Porgy. This way.” 

** And this way,” cried another and another. 

Tn all these cries, Porgy fancied there was something of an 
otlicial tone, and he answered one for all. 

“ How now, you unfeeling brutes ] What are you howling 
about, at such a rate V Have you no sensibility 'I Must the 
dying agonies of the poor beast be disturbed by such horrible 
sounds as issue from such monstrous throats? or do you sup- 
pose me deaf? Say what you want. From whom come you? 
Speak out, and do not think me so deaf as indifferent. I 
would not hearken, but that you compel me to hear, and will 
hardly heed unless you speak in more subdued accents. You 
will crack the drum of my ear by such howlings !” 

“ Ho 1 ho ! ho 1 — Ha I ha 1 ha I” 

“ What a damnable chorus 1” muttered the philosopher. “ Ai:i 
this disrespect is the fruit of my good nature. Familiarity 
breeds contempt. He who sleeps with a puppy is sure of fleas. 
Now, all because of my taking these rascals into my mesc ?.nd 
treating them like gentlemen, do they presume to howl, and 
shout, and yell in my ears, as if they were so many bedfellowG? 


:58 


MKLLICHAMPE. 


Well, Mr. Mason, \^liat is it you would say? Speak out and 
have done with it. k short horse is soon curried.’^ 

Dick Mascn gi'owled sulkily at the reflection upon his 
dwarfish size. He was the monster in little of the camp, be- 
ing but four feet eight. 

“ Why, lieutenant/’ said he, “ you’re mighty cross to-day.” 

“ Cross ! — And well I maybe, since here’s Nabob, my nag, 
as fine an animal as man would wish to cross, racked with all 
the spasms of an infernal colic ! Tell me what I can do for 
hi'ii ; if not, hold your peace, and go to the devil without 
bothering me with your sense of what is due to your master.” 

“Your horse! — what. Nabob?” with interest. 

“ Yes I my horse I Nabob I” pertinently. 

“ Give him red pepper tea I” said one. 

“ Soot and salt I” cried another. 

“ Gunpowder and rum 1” a third. 

“ Turpentine and castor oil !” a fourth. 

“ A feed of pine burrs is the very best remedy, lieutenant,” 
said a fifth. 

Other suggestions followed, half in jest, half in earnest, until 
the angry lieutenant, seizing one of the party by the hair of 
his head with one hand, and snatching up a cudgel with the 
other, was preparing to make a signal example of the one of- 
fender, for the benefit of the now dispersing group, when Hum- 
phries seized him from behind, and drew, for a brief moment, 
the fury of the epicure upon himself. 

“ Who dares ?” he demanded, wheeling about. 

“Why, you’re as full of fight as a spring terrapii; of 
eggs.” 

“ The comparison saves you a cudgeling, Bill Humphries, 
though you half deserve it for saving these rascals. They’ve 
been jeering me, the heartless blackguards, about the condi- 
tion of my horse, who’s dying of colic 1” 

“ Colic ! — do you say ? Is he bad off.” 

“ He’s no horse if he isn’t. Bad as he can be ! So bad, that 
even Tom prescribes Oakenburg.” 

“ Oakenburg will kill him, if he undertakes the cure. But 
there’s a Saut.^e jockey here, that’s famous as a horse doctor. 


THE HALF-BREED IS WINDED. 


159 


8o lio ! Here ! Tom Jennings,” calling to a lanksided sand- 
lapper, “ be off quickly, and hunt up Zeke Turpin, and send 
him here. Tell him that Lieutenant Porgy’s horse has colic 
from eating his master’s dinner by mistake.” 

“ Ah ! villain, you take advantage of my grief,” said Porgy, 
with an effort to smile. 

“ He’ll cure it if anybody can ! So give yourself no con- 
cern. Only, you must put yourself in readiness as soon as 
possible. That’s the order now.” 

What’s to be done, Humphries?” 

Work ! Fight’s the word !” 

“ Fight ! With whom now ?” 

“ Tlie tories !” 

“ The tories ! Whereabouts do they gather?” 

“ At Sinkler’s meadow, where there’s to be a mighty gathei- 
ing. They are promised arms and ammunition from the city. 
We are to have warm work, they tell us, .for there’s to be a 
smart chance of the rascals together; but devil take the odds. 
The job will pay for itself, Porgy, since they’re to have a bar- 
becue and plenty of rum.” 

“Ah, ha! That’s encouraging as a prospect, Humphries ; 
and now the question is, whether we shall let 'Jiem feed be- 
fore we fight them, or fight them before they feed.” 

“I don’t see why that should be a question. We’ve got to 
fight them as soon as we can get a chance at them, and 
whether before or after the barbecue don’t matter very much.’’ 

“An opinion that argues great simplicity on the part of 
Lieutenant Humphries,” was the reply of Porgy. “ The dif- 
ference is vastly material to our interests, and ought to govern 
our policy. If we let them feed before we fight them, we shall 
fill! them easier customers, since every third man will be 
surely drunk, and no second man sober.” 

“Well, there’s something in that, certainly,” said Hum- 
phries. 

“Ay, true; but look at the other side. 'If we fight them 
before we suffer them to feed, we shall have the greater spoil, 
since barbecued beef and Jamaica, which have been already 
consumed by a hundred or two starving tories, is so much 


160 


MELLICHAMJE. 


clear loss to our commissariat. Now, Bill, I’m for the toughei 
job of the two — the harder fighting and the greater saving. 
The wretches! anly to think that they aie to have a barbe- 
cue, while we are compelled to eat — Tom, what are we com- 
pelled to eat I — what have you got for dinner, to-day, old fel 
low r’ 

Tom reappeared in season to answer. 

“ Wha’ for dinner ! Huh ! Hab some tripe, sah, and h m'- 
ny, and bile acorns.” 

Tripe, hommony, and boiled acoras ! And they to have a 
barbecue 1 Roast beef — a whole ox — stall-fed, no doubt ! — 
and a puncheon of Jamaica ! Ah 1 Humphries, it is a prob- 
lem wbich none of us can solve. There seems to be soi.ie- 
thing unreasonable in this partial distribution of the gifts of 
Providence. Has a tory a better stomach than a patriot? Is 
his taste more lefined and intellectual? Does he need more 
fuel for his furnace ? Are his nervous energies ipore exhaust- 
ing 1 Are his virtues higher? Has he the right of the politi- 
cal argument ? In other words, ought we to prefer George the 
Third to the Condnental Congress, for that is the question 
that naturahy occurs to us when we find the tories better sup- 
plied with the creature comforts than ourselves.” 

“ Well, Pdrgy, that’s certainly a new view of the case.” 

“ Truly ; but I see how it’s to be answered, without a sacri- 
fice of principle. The rascals have the good things, Bill ; but 
shall they be allowed to keep ’em ? That’s the question. On 
the contrary, they are but so many agents of Providence, in 
gathering and getting ready the feast for us. We shall spoil 
the Egyptians, Bill; we .shall be able to come upon them — 
shall we not? — before they shall have touched the meat. I 
like vastly to take a first cut at a barbecue. The nice gravy 
is then delicious. After a dozen slashes have been made in it, 
it imbibes a smoky flavor which I do not relish. We must 
come upon them, Bill, when everything’s ready, but before 
they have made the first cut.” 

“ Right ! but I’m afraid yov^ll not be in time for the cut, lieu 
tenant,” said Humphries gravely. 

** And why not, pray ?” 


TUE HALF-BREED IS WINDED.. ICl 

Yol . horse !” 

“ Ah, that I should have forgotten the poor beast, thinking 
of the barbecue. Tom, how’s Nabob now 

Tom shook his head deplorably. 

“ Ah ! well, I suppose I shall have to lose him. I must 
leave him with your Santee jockey, Bill, and see what he can 
do for him. But to that barbecue I’ll go! Flat! 1*11 bor- 
row the nag of that old German that’s sick — old ” : 

“ Feutbaer ! Well, he’ll carry you safe enough; it whl be 
for the tories to say if he will bring you back. But what’s 
this? — ha!” 

Humphries started as the two approached the litt’io hollow 
in which Tom carried on his preparations for the liumbio meal 
of the squad for which he provided. The trooper seized a 
rifle that stood against a tree beside him, and lifted it instan- 
taneously to his eye. The muzzle of it rested upon the 
strange dog that burrowed amid the offal strewn about th^ 
place, unnoticed by the busy cook who purveyed for him 
Porgy was about to declare his wonderment at the sudden 
ferocity of mood exhibited by his companion, when, motioning 
him to be silent, the trooper lowered the weapon, and called 
to John Davis, who was approaching at a little distance. 

“Davis,” said he, as the other came near, “do you know 
that dog ?” 

“ I think I do; but where I’ve seen him I can’t say. I’m 
sure I know him.” 

“ Is it possible ?” exclaimed Humphries, somewhat impa- 
tiently, “ that you should any of you fail to remember tlie 
brute ? What do you say, Tom ? Don’t you know the dog ?” 

This was addressed to the negro in tones that startled him 

■ He face is berry familiar to me, Massa Bill,” returned Tom 
after a pause, in which he seemed to study the matter with 
grave severity ; “ he face is berry familiar to me, ’cept he a’n’t 
bin wash ’em much. But I loss de recollection oh de name 
for ebber. * 

“ But why the devil,” quoth Porgy, “ should that dirty- 
looking beast so much interest you ? Positively, you are all 
in a stew and sweat.” 


MKLLICirAMPE. 


163 

“ And well I may be 16 all’s true that I suspect. I’m a 
marked ma'' !” 

“ A marked man ! you're dreaming ! What do you mean?” 

“1 can not be mistaken, Porgy. That is the cur of Mother 
Blonay — Goggle’s mother — and the blear-eyed rascal must 
be, even now, in this very neighborhood.” 

Do you think so, Bill?” demanded Davis. 

Think so ? I know it, if I know the dog. If that be the 
same brute, Blonay’s here — at hand — in this very swamp; 
and we are hunted ! 1 am hunted ! The rascal’s on my trail. 
He seeks my life.” 

This v/as a serious suggestion, the importance of which was 
instanVy felt by all the group. If such a scout as Blonay 
Were :e{ lly on the trail of Humphries, there was not a moment 
in Wx-ich his life was secure. There was no path which he 
or Id pursue in safety ; every bush might give forth the 
oullet, every tree-top, or hollow, or gillley, or bay, or swamp- 
bordei, send forth its sudden messenger of death. The assas- 
sin in the scout, and on trail, presents to the imagination of 
the woodman as complete an idea of danger and terror as it 
belongs to the human mind to conceive. But Humphries, 
tiTDUf h rendered very serious by his conjectures, was not ap- 
palled, or deprived by his apprehensions of the first attributes 
of manhood — thought and decision. 

“We are hunted,” he continued, after closely scrutinizing 
the dog, “ I am now sure of it. Goggle’s in this very place, 
and the bead of his rifle, no doubt ranging, some hundred yards 
off, upon some one of this party. But don’t look up or 
around,” said he quickly, seeing that his companions were 
about to let their eyes and gestures betray their curiosity. 
“ Do not look, or start, or seem curious. If he be here, as I 
believe, we must not suffer him to suppose that his presence is 
suspected. We must play a scout-game with the rascal; while 
we are all here together, he will scarcely trouble one of us. 
He will watch his opportunity to find me alone, for I am sure 
that I am the one he seeks.” 

“ But,” said Porgy, “ even if this be the rascal’s dog, and 
it has a sufficiently rascally look to be so, why should that 


THE HALF-BREED IS WINDED. 163 

prove the master to be present? The brute may have 
strayed.” 

“ No ! such a creature never strays. He can’t do without 
his master. He is a part of him. But let us see, now, if the 
animal can be made to seek his master. “Tom!” — to the 
negro. 

Tom had been listening curiously. He answered promptly. 
The dog meanwhile, with his nose about the fires, had been 
picking up bones and scraps — the remnants of the feast. 

“ Tom, hit the dog a smart stroke suddenly with your stick — 
a blow not to hurt him much, but to scare him, and make him 
run. Do you, Davis, move to the edge of the creek, and watch 
him well as he runs. If he lacks a master, he will dodge 
about the island. If he has left him anywhere about, he will 
make off in that direction. Then we shall see what route to 
take, and, with half-a-dozen of us on his track, we may make 
out to cross his path, and cut him off from escape. Keep your 
eyes about you, Davis.” 

Davis proceeded in one direction. Two other persons were 
despatched quietly to place themselves in watch upon other 
parts of the island overlooking the swamp, Humphries him- 
self prepared to dash forward in a third direction, equidistant 
from these. Tom, in the meanwhile, with a stick concealed 
behind him, was sidling forward to a nearer acquaintance with 
the dog, who, unsuspicious of the designs upon him and greedy 
for food, was still busy, with nose prying into pots, pans, and 
kettles. All the parties were prepared, and Humphries gave 
a sign to Tom to proceed, as soon as possible, to his part of the 
performance. The negro watched his opportunity, and, soon 
after, with right good will, he laid the flail over the back of the 
obtrusive animal. At the smart and unexpected salutation, 
the dog, with a yell, darted back howling into the swamp ; 
taking, as Humphries had calculated, the very route over Avhich 
he came, and toward the spot where he had left his master. 
Humphries, and the companions whom he had selected, at 
once dashed off in pursuit. 

But Blonay was not to be caught napping. He had one 
chief merit of a scout — indeed, it was his only merit — he 


104 


MELLICHAMPE. 


never trusted himself within smell and sound of an enemy’s 
camp, without keeping his wits "well about him. He had 
marked well the party on the island ; had seen the movement 
of Humphries toward the dog ; beheld his rifle uplifted, and 
pointed for a moment at the head of the animal ; and readily 
divined the motives which induced his enemy to forbear shoot- 
ing him, and which finally led to the movement which had been 
subsequently conceived and acted upon. The great secret in^ 
stratagem is to give your enemy credit for an ingenuity and 
enterprise which are at least equal to your own. Blonay had 
readily conceived the plan which he himself would pursue in 
a situation such as that of Humphries. He acted accordingly, 
felt his own danger, and at once proceeded to a change of 
ground. 

Leaving the advanced position from which he had watched 
the camp, and running in a straight line about fifty yards above, 
he then turned suddenly about and kept a forward course in 
the direction of the spot at which he had first entered the 
swamp. But he did not take these precautions without some 
doubts of their adequacy to his concealment. He muttered, 
to himself, his apprehensions of the keen scent of the dog, 
which he feared would too quickly find out his track, and lead 
his pursuers upon it; and, though he doubted not that he 
should be able to get out of the swamp before any of those 
after him, he was yet fully aware of the utter impossibility of 
escaping them on the high road, should any of them mount in 
pursuit. 

Though a hardy and fast animal, his pony was quite too 
small to overcome space very rapidly ; and the determination 
of Blonay was soon made, if he could mislead the dog, to seek 
a hiding-place in the swamp, which, from its great extent and 
impervious density in many places, he knew would conceal 
him, for a time, from any force which the partisans might send. 
He hurried on, therefore, taking the water at every oppor- 
tunity, and leaving as infrequent a track as possible behind 
him. But he fled in vain from the sagacious and true scent of 
his dog. From place to place, true in every change, the cur 
kept on after him, giving forth, as he fled, an occasional yelp 


THE HALF-BREED IS WINDED. 


165 


o* dissatisfaction or chagrin, as much probably on account of 
the heating he had received as from not finding his master. 

“ Adrat the pup — there's no losing him. Now, if I had my 
hand on him, I should knife him, and that's the only way. 
sle'll bring ’em on me, at last, ef I don’t.” 

The half-breed thus muttered, as the bark of the dog on the 
new trail which he had made, attested the success with which 
be pursued him. Blonay rose upon a stump, and distinctly 
beheld the head of Humphries, rising above a fallen log ; the 
proprietor of it, led and excited by the cries of the dog, pres- 
sing forward with surprising energy, though still at a con- 
siderable distance behind. Blonay murmured to himself, as 
he watched his enemy : — 

*'I can hit him now — it’s not two hundred yards, and I’ve 
'l.U a smaller mark than that so fur, before now.” 

And, as he spoke, he lifted his rifle, cocked it, and raised it 
to his eye, where it rested for a few seconds ; but Humphries 
was now covered by a tree. The dog came on, and Blonay 
distinguished the voices of the pursuers, and that of Humphries 
in particular, urging the chase with words of encouragement. 
Unseen himself, he now took a certain aim at the head of the 
lieutenant ; another moment and he must have fired ; but, just 
then, he beheld the figure of T)avis pressing through the brush, 
at a point higher up than the rest, and seemingly bent on 
making a circuit, which would enable him to get between their 
present position and the fugitive’s only outlet. 

To merely kill his victim, and to run the risk of perishing 
himself, was not the desire of the half-breed. His Indian 
blood took its vengeance on safer terms. He slowly uncocked 
the rifle, let it fall from his shoulder, and once more set off in 
flight, taking now a course parallel with that which he beheld 
John Davis pursuing. His object was to reach the same point ; 
and he could only do so, in good time to escape, by keeping 
the direct route upon which he now found himself. 

At this moment his dog came up with him. He was about 
to plunge into a puddle of mixed mire and water. The faith- 
ful animal, unconscious of the danger in which he had involved 
his master, now leaped fondly upon him ; testifying his joy at 


166 


MKLLICHAMPE. 


finding him by wantonly yelping at the highest pitch of his 
voice, and assailing him Avitli the most uncouth caresses, which 
added to his annoyance by impeding his flight. His clamors 
also guided the pursuers upon the true path of the fugitive, 
and would continue to guide them. The moment was full of 
peril, and everything depended upon his decision. The savage 
and ready mood of the half-breed did not long delay in £, 
moment of such necessity. Muttering to himself, in few wordsj 
his chagrin, he grasped the dog firmly by the back of his nech; 
and, as the skin was tightly drawn upon the throat, with & 
quick movement of his hand he passed the keen blade of his 
knife but once over it, and thrust the body from him in the 
ooze. 

With a single cry and a brief struggle, the animal lay det.d 
in the path of the pursuers. Hurriedly sending the knife bac^ 
into its sheath, the savage resumed the rifle which, while he 
slew the dog, he had leaned against a cypress ; and, seemingly 
without compunction, he avain set forward. 

His flight was now far less desperate, since his pursuers had 
no longer the keen faculties of the dog to scent for them the 
path, and his clamorous yelp to guide them upon it ; and, with 
a more perfect steadiness, Blonay pushed onward until he 
gained a small, though impenetrable cane-brake. This he 
soon rounded, and it now lay between him and his enemies. 
Taking to the water whenever it came in his way, he left but 
few traces of his route behind him ; and to find these, at inter- 
vals, m cessarily impeded the pursuers. When, at length, they 
reached the pond in which he had slain his dog, and beheld 
the body of their guide before them, they saw that the pursuit 
was almost hopeless. 

“ Look here !” exclaimed Humphries to the rest, as they 
severally came up to the spot. “Look here! the skunk, you 
see, has been mighty hard pushed, and can’t be far off; but 
there’s no great chance of finding him now. It’s like hunting 
after a needle in a haystack. So long as we had the dog there 
was something to go by, for the beast would find his master 
through thick and thin, and we should have got up with him 
some time or other. Goggle knew that ; and he’s done the 


THE HAIV-phEED TR WINDED. 


167 


only tiling that could have saved him. He’s a scout among a 
thousand — that same Goggle; and no money, if we had it, 
ought to be stinted to get him on our side. But he knows the 
ditlerence between guineas and continental paper; and, so 
long as Proctor pays him well with the one, he’d be a mighty 
fool, being what he is, to bother himself about the other.” 

At that moment the shrill sounds of the trumpet came to 
them from the camp, and put an end to the pursuit, as it com- 
manded their presence for other duties. 

“There’s the trumpet, boys; we must put back. We can’t 
stop to bother any longer with a single man ; and so little 
chance, too, of our catching him. We’ve got other work. The 
general, you must know, is getting ready for a brush with the 
tories ; and we have permission to lick them well to-morrow 
at Sinkler’s Meadow. If we do we shall all get rich ; for 
Barsfield, they say, is to meet them there with a grand supply 
of shoes and blankets, muskets and swords, and a thousand 
other matters besides, which they’ve got and we want. We 
must get back at once ; and yet, boys, it goes against me to 
leave this scoundrel in the swamp.” 

But there they were compelled to leave him in perfect 
security. The half-breed reached his pony, which he mounted 
at once and proceeded on his return. He had no reason to be 
dissatisfied with events. He had tracked his enemy, though 
his vengeance was still unsatisfied ; he had found out the 
secret pass to the rebel camp, and he estimated highly the 
value of the discovery. 


MKLLIOHAMFR, 




CHAPTER XIX. 

THE GAME AFOOT. 

The stirring tones of tlie trumpet, a long and lively peal, 
resounded through the swamp. Its summons was never un- 
heeded by the men of Marion. They gathered on all hands, 
and from every quarter of its comprehensive recesses. From 
the hammock Avhere they slept, from the lakelet where they 
fished, from the green where they leaped the frog, hurled the 
bar, or wrestled in emulous sport, in all the buoyancy of full 
life and conscious strength. They were soon thick around the 
person of the partisan, and nothing for some time could be 
heard hut the busy hum, the mingling voices of the crowd, in 
all the confusion of that sort of preparation and bustle which 
usually precedes the long march and anticipated conflict. 

But the quick, sharp, yet low tones of the “ swamp-fox” 
soon reduced to silence the commotion, and brought to sj^m- 
metry and order all that was confusion before. His words 
were powerful, as they were uttered in a voice of unquestion- 
able command, and with that unhesitating decision which, as 
it compels respect from the foe, is always sure to secure cpn- 
fideiice in the follower. Strange that, in domestic life, and in 
moments of irresponsible and unexciting calm, usually dis- 
tinguished by a halting and ungraceful hesitation of manner, 
which materially took from the dignity of his deportment, it 
was far otherwise when he came to command and in the hour 
of cfdlision. He possessed a wonderful elasticity of character, 
, which w'as never so apparent as when in the time of danger. 
At such periods there was a lively play of expression in his 
countenance, denoting a cool and fearless spirit. His manner 
now was marked by this elasticity ; and, instead of anticipated 


THE GAME AFOOT. 


169 


battle, one might have imagined that he was about to promise 
to his men tlie relaxation and the delights of a festival. But 
the sagacious among them knew better. They had seen 
him drinking vinegar and water — his favorite beverage — in 
greater quantities than usual ; and they knew, from old ex- 
perience, that a rapid march and a fierce struggle were at 
hand. 

‘ Well, gentlemen,” said Marion, seeing his officers and 
favorite men all around him, “ if you are as tired of the swamp 
as I am, you will rejoice at the news I bring you. We are 
now to leave it.” 

“ Whither now, general ?” asked Hony. 

“Ah, that indeed is the question. We must leave it first. 
Tliat, gentlemen, is the requisition of our old friend Captain 
Barsfield, of his majesty’s loyalists, who is now mustering in 
force around us. He has instructions to set dog upon dog, and 
hunt us out with our hounds of neighbors — the tories. It is 
for you to say whether we shall stand and wait their coming, 
or give them the trouble of hunting the empty swamp after us 
I am for leaving them the ground, and looking out for other 
quarters and a better business.” 

Cries of “No, no — let us meet them — let us not fly from 
any tory !” were heard on all hands; and Horry, Singleton, 
and sundry others of the most favored officers, seriously inter- 
posed with suggestions of their strength, and the ability and 
willingness of the men to fight. The partisan smiled pleas- 
antly as he listened to their suggestions.” 

“ You mistake me somewhat, gentlemen,” was his quiet and 
general reply ; “ you mistake me much ; and I rejoice that you 
do so, as I am now so much the better satisfied that your views 
and feelings accord with my own. To leave the swamp does 
not mean to fly from the enemy. Oh, no ! I propose, on the 
contrary, that we should leave the swamp in order to seek tlie 
enemy , before he shall be altogether ready for us. Why should 
we wait until he has brought his men together? — why wait 
until the tories from Waccamaw come in to swell the number 
of our own rascals from Williamsburg ? — and why, of all things, 
wait until Captain Barsfield brings his baggage-wagons with 

8 


ITO 


MELLICHAMPE. 


supplies to glut these greedy wretches who expect them 1 I 
see no reason for this.” 

“No, no, general,” was the response; “we are ready fo; 
them — we need not wait.” 

“Very well, gentlemen, as you say — we need not wait; 
and, supposing that such would be your determination, I have 
already completed my arrangements for departure. We shall 
move off with midnight; and it is expected, gentlemen, that 
.you so speed in your duties as to suffer no delay after that 
period in your departure. Colonel Horry will have his squad 
in readiness to move with me upon Sinkler’s meadow, where we 
must take post before the tories. The route and general or- 
ders he will find in this paper. Singleton — ” 

The chief led the young officer aside. 

“ Singleton, I have special work for you, which calls for all 
your activity. Take your whole corps of riflemen, and select 
your horses. Leave to Captain Melton all those of your men 
who are most cumbrous or may least be relied upon. The duty 
is too important to be intrusted to clumsy fingers.” 

Singleton bowed, and Marion continued : — 

“Proceed up the river road to Brooks’ mills, and secure the 
detachment which Watson has placed there. Let none of them 
escape, if you can, to carry news across the river. Let your 
return be by daylight, and then take the road toward Berke- 
ley’s place, where Barsfield has found lodgings. He will move 
to-morrow, with the sun, on the route to Sinkler’s meadow. He 
must be met and beaten at all hazards. I will despatch Cap- 
tain Melton with thirty men for this purpose; and, in order to 
make certain, as soon as you have surprised the guard at 
Brooks’, you will push down toward Berkeley’s, Kaddipah, or 
in whatever quarter Barsfield may go. Melton probably will 
do the business; but, as it wilf be in your subsequent route, 
you may as well prepare to co-operate with him, should you 
be in season. We must keep Barsfield from joining these to- 
ries, upon whom I shall most probably fall by mid-day. You 
may find tliis a somewhat difficult matter, as Barsfield fights 
well, and is something of a soldier. You must surprise him if 
you can. This done, you will proceed to scour the upper road 


THE GAME AFOOT. 


171 


witli as much rapidity «ns comports with caution. Tlie scouts 
bring me word of a corps in that quarter, which can he no other 
than Tarleton’s. This scrawl, too, comes from tliat dear old 
granny. Mother Dyson, who lives near Monk’s Corner. Hear 
what the good old creature says : — 

‘ Dare Gtn’ral : There’s a power of red-coats jist guine 
doM'u by the back lane into your parts, and they do tell tliat 
it’s arter you they’re guine. They’re dressed mighty fine, and 
lias a heap of guns and horses, and as much provisions as the 
wagons can tote. I makes bold to tell you this, gin’ral, tliat 
you may smite them, hip and thigh, even as the Israelites 
smote the bloody Pliilistians in the blessed book. And so, no 
more, dare gin’ral, from your sarvant to command, 

“ ‘ Betsy Dyson. 

“ ‘N. B. — Don’t you pay the barer, gin’ral, for he’s owing 
me a power of money, and he’s agreed with me that what 1 
gives him for guine down to you is to come out of what lie 
owes me. He’s a good man enough, and is no tory, but he 
a’li’t quite given to speaking the truth always; and I’m sorry 
to tell you, gin’ral, that, in spite of all I says to him, he don’t 
mend a bit. “ ‘ B. D.’ 

“ Quite a characteristic epistle, Singleton, and from as true 
a patriot as ever lived — that same old Betsy Dyson. These 
troops must be Tarleton’s, and I doubt not that he moves with 
the entire legion. He has pledged himself to Cornwallis to 
force me to a fight, and he comes to redeem his pledge, ddiis 
we must avoid, and we must therefore hurry to put these tories 
out of the way before they can co-operate Avith the legion. I 
will see to them. When you have done Avith Barsfield, should 
Melton not have struck before you reach him, you Avill take 
the upper track until you find Tarleton. But you are to risk 
nothing : we can not hope to fight him, eA^eii Avith our Avhole 
present force, and you must risk nothing with your little squad. 
You must only hang about him, secure intelligence of all his 
movements, and, Avhere opportunities occur, obstruct his steps, 
and cut off such of his detachments as come Avithin your reach, 


1T2 


MELLTCnAMPE. 


You can worry the advance, and throw them hack upon the 
foot, for their horses Avill not hold a leg with the meanest of 
your troop. We want time, and this will give it to us: and 
none of these risks should he taken unless you encounter the 
legion before sunset to-morrow. After that, you are simply to 
watch and report their movements. Should I succeed in the 
attack at Sinkler’s to-morrow, you will find me at the ferry at 
midnight. • Should you not, take it as a proof of my failure, 
and look for me at Snow’s island.” 

A few other minor suggestions completed Singleton’s com- 
mission ; and Marion proceeded, in like manner, to detail to 
every officer, intrusted with command, the duties which were 
before him. With Colonel Horry’s squad, he took to himself 
the task of routing tlie tories at Sinkler’s meadow. Twenty 
men, under Captain James, he despatched to w'aylay the road 
leading from Waccamaw, over which another small body of 
tories was expected to pass ; and, this done, the rest of the 
day was devoted by all parties to preparations for the move- 
ment of the night. 

Promptness was one of the first principles in Marion’s war- 
fare. With the approach of evening, the several corps pre- 
pared for their departure. Saddles were taken from the trees, 
on whose branches they had hung suspended all around the 
camp; steeds were brought forward from the little recesses 
where they browsed upon the luxuriant cane-tops; swords 
waved m the declining sunset ; bugles sounded from each se- 
lected station, where it had been the habit for the several 
squads to. congregate ; and, as the sun went really down behind 
the thick forest, the camp was soon clear of all ^le active life 
which it possessed before. All who were able were away on 
their several duties; and but a few, the invalids and supernu- 
meraries alone, remained to take charge of themselves and the 
furniture of the encampment. 

Our fat friend. Lieutenant Porgy, had a narrow chance of 
being left. Were we to consider his bulk simply, he might 
have been classed with those whom Marion spoke of as quite 
too “ cumbrous” for movement. But his energy and impulse 
were more than a match for his bulk. Still, the best will and 


THE GAME AFOOT. 


173 


blood are not proof against tbe decrees of fate ; and while Marion 
was yet giving his orders, Tom reported to his master the death 
of the horse Nabob. The epicure was for a moment overcome. 
He proceeded, however, with commendable promptness, to 
what was styled, par courtesies the hospital, where Fentbaer, 
the German, lay sick. From him he proposed to borrow his 
horse. But, even while negotiating with the sick man, Tom 
entered with great outcry and much rejoicing, conducting a 
sergeant, who brought with him a fine horse, and a message 
from Singleton, begging Porgy to use him until a better steed 
could be captured from the enemy. The animal brought him 
was a noble bay, one of a pair, and Porgy was not the man to 
underrate a generosity so unusual as well as handsome. Of 
course, he accepted the gift, and was lavish of thanks. But 
he said to Humphries, with a sigh: “A handsome present. 
Bill; our major is the man to do handsome things. This is a 
very fine animal, and just suits me — perhaps even better than 
Nabob ; but Nabob was a sort of half-brother to me. Bill. I 
raised the ridiculous beast myself.” 

Humphries thought the use of the word “ ridiculous” rather 
an abuse of language, but it was employed for a purpose — 
was in fact designed to conceal a sentiment. When, half an 
hour after, Porgy beheld Tom stretching the skin of poor Na- 
bob in the isun, he felt like cudgelling the negro, whom he 
called an inhuman beast. 

“ Why,” he asked, furiously, “ why did you skin the animal, 
you savage V' 

“ Oh ! maussa, kaise I lub ’em so ! Nabob and me guine to 
sleep togedder a’ter this, for ebber and for ebbermore.” 

Tom was even more “ an old soldier” than his master. Por- 
gy growled — 

“ Some day that will be the scoundrel^S apology for skinning 
me!” 

But we are not permitted to lingei^ijver the mere humors of 
our partisans. Let us leave them for a space, and look after 
the half-breed Blonay. Relieved from the hot pursuit which 
had been urged after him, he relaxed in the rapidity of his 
movements, and made his way witli more composure out of the. 


174 


MELLICHAMPE. 


swamp. He liad not slain liis enemy, it is true; but be bad 
been quite as successful in discovering the place of bis retreat 
as bis most sanguine hopes bad predicted. He bad not merely 
seen bis particular foe, and found out bis biding-place, but be 
bad discovered tbe passage to one of those secret b aunts of tbe 
“ swamp-fox,” tbe knowledge of wbicb, be doubted not, would 
bring bim a bandsome reward from tbe Britisb officers, to wliom 
Marion was becoming, daily, more and more an object of hos- 
tile consideration. Satisfied, therefore, with tbe result of bis 
expedition, though lamenting tbe unavoidable sacrifice wbicb 
lie bad made of his dog — bis last friend, bis only companion — 
be at once took bis way back to “ Piney Grove,” where be 
hoped to meet with Barsfield. It was not long before be stood 
before tbe tory, who led bim away at once into tbe woods, 
anxious, from bis intense bate to Mellicbampe, to learn how 
far tbe half-breed bad been successful in bis search. 

“Well, what have you done? what have you seen? Have 
you found tbe trail, Blonay ? Have you discovered tbe biding- 
place of this reptile — these reptiles ?” 

“Well, cappin, there's no saying for certain, when you’re 
upon tbe trail of a good woodman. He’s everywhere, and 
then agin he’s nowhere. Sometimes he’s in one place, some- 
times in another ; and sometimes it a’n’t three minutes’ differ- 
ence that he don’t have a change. Now the ‘ swamp -fox’ is 
famous for drawing stakes, and going there’s no telling where.” 

“ True, true, I know all that. But it’s fof a good scout to 
find bim out, and track bim through all bis changes. Now, 
what have you done in your search ? You have seen your 
enemy, have you not ? Where have you left him ? and, above 
all, have you seen that boy — he whom, of all others, I would 
have you see ? What of Mellicbampe ?” 

“ I seed him, cappin, but mighty far off — I know’d him frbm 
what you toll’d me — I can’t be mistaken.” 

“Well!” 

“ But, cappin, there’s a mighty heap of men with Marion- 
more than a hundred.” 

“ Impossible 1 you dream 1” responded the tory in astonish- 
ment. 


THE GAME AFOOT. 


175 


“ It’s a gospel truth, sir, and they looked quite sprigh ; and 
the trumpet blowed, and there was a great gathering. They 
had a fine chance of horses, too — some of the finest I ever 
laid eyes on.” 

“ Ha, indeed ! This will be work for Tarleton, who must 
now be at hand. From Monk’s Corner to Smoot’s, thirty 
miles — then here — he should be here to-morrow noon, and I 
must hurry with the dawn for Sinkler’s — yes — it must be at 
daylight.” 

The tory thus muttered to himself, and the half-breed duly 
treasured up every syllable. The speaker proceeded again, 
addressing his companion — 

“ ’Tis well — you have managed handsomely, Blonay ; but 
you have not yet said where the gathering took place. Tell 
me the route you took, and give me a full description of the 
spot itself, and all particulars of your adventure.” 

But the half-breed, though exhorted thus, was in no haste 
to yield any particulars to Barsfield. The casual reference to 
Tarleton’s approach, which had fallen from the tory’s lips in 
his brief soliloquy, had determined Blonay to keep his secret 
for one who would most probably pay him better ; and, though 
he replied to, he certainly did iiict answer, the question of his 
present employer. 

“Well, now, cappin, there's no telling how to find the place 
I went to. There’s so many crooks and turns — so many ins 
and outs — so many ups and downs, that it’s all useless to talk 
about it. It’s only nose and eye that can track it out for you ; 
for, besides that I don’t know the names of any places in these 
parts, I could only find it myself by putting my foot along the 
track, and taking hold of the bushes which I broke myself. 
I could tell you that you must take the road back to the left, 
then strike across the old field to the right, then you come to 
a little bay, and you go round that till you fall into a little 
path, that leads you into the thick wood ; then you keep a lit- 
tle to the left agin, and you go on in this way a full quarter 
before you come out^into a valley; then — ” 

“Enough, enough — such a direction would baffle the best 
«cout along the Santee. We must even trust to your own eyes 


176 


MELLIOllAMrE. 


and feet when the time comes to hunt these reptiles, and 1 
trust that your memory wjll not fail you then.” 

“ Never fear, eappin,” responded the other, agreeably satis- 
fied to be let off so easily from a more precise description of 
the route which he had taken. It is probable that, with a 
greater force than that which he commanded, and which was 
entirely inadequate to any such enterprise, Barsfield, solicitous 
of distinction, and seeking after his foe, would have compelled 
the guidance of Blonay, and gone himself after the “ swamp- 
fox.” As matters stood, however, he determined to pursue his 
bid bent, and, seeking his tories at Sinkler’s meadow, leave to 
the fierce Tarleton the honor of hunting out the wily Marion. 


8HARr PASSAGES AT ARMS. 


17; 


CHAPTER XX. 

SHARP PASSAGES AT ARMS. 

Barsfield retired to his slumbers that night with pleas*..,^ 
anticipations. Blonay again sought the woods, and sleepletsiy 
sought, by the doubtful moonlight, his w*ay into the fame 
swamp recesses which he had traversed through the day. His 
leading passion was revenge, and he spared no pains c,o se- 
cure it. He could sleep standing against a tree; ULid he 
seemed not even to need repose at all. He was gune all 
night, yet appeared at the mansion of Mr. Berkeley ready for 
his breakfast, and seemingly as if he had never felt fatigue. 

The twm maidens the next morning stood conversing in the 
piazza. Barsfield, with his corps, baggage-wagorkS and all, 
had just departed. Blonay, too, had set olf, but in a different 
direction. Piney Grove was once more left to its old, sweet 
quiet; and a painful restraint and a heavy w^eight seemed 
taken from the heart of Janet Berkeley with the absence of 
her father’s guests. 

“ Well, Janet,” exclaimed the livelier Rose Duncan, as they 
looked down the long avenue, and surveyed its quiet, “ I am 
heartily glad our military visiters are gone. I am sick of big 
swords, big whiskers, and big feathers, the more particularly 
indeed, as, with many of this sort of gentry, these endowments 
seem amply suflScient to atone for and redeun the most outra- 
geous stupidly, mixed with much more moi/strous self-esteem 
There was not one of these creatures, now, that could fairly 
persuade a body, even in the most trying countiy emergency 
to remember she had a heart at all. All was stuff and stiff- 
ness, buttons and buckram ; and when the creatures did make 


178 


MELLICIIAMPE. 


a move, it was a sort of wire and screw exhibition — a dread 
fill operation in mechanics, as if a clumsy inventor, armed 
with thumbs rather than fingers, and mortally apprehensive 
that his work would go to pieces before he could get it safely 
out of his hands, had wheeled it out, and was wheeling it in, 
soured and sullen from a consciousness that, in so wheeling it, 
the rickety thing had not shown to advantage. And these are 
soldiers! Well, Heaven save us, I pray, as much from their 
love as from their anger. The latter might bayonet one, it is 
true; hut I should as surely die of the annoyance and ennui 
that would inevitably come with the other. Look up, my dear 
cousin, and tell me what you think.” 

It was thus that the lively Rose Duncan discoursed of the 
tory troop to her cousin. Janet replied quietly — a pleasant 
but subdued smile touching her lips, softly and sweet, as a 
faint blush of sunlight resting upon some drooping flower by 
the Avayside. 

“ And yet, my dear Rose, you have no reason to complain ; 
you certainly made a conquest of the young lieutenant, Mr. 
Clayton. His eyes spoke eloquently enough ; and his mouth, 
whenever it was opened, was full of the prettiest compliments. 
You must not be ungrateful.” 

“ Nor am I. I do not complain of, nor yet will I appropriate, 
the ‘goods the gods provide me.’ I take leave to congratulate 
myself on their leaves-taking — all — not to omit my simper- 
ing, sweet, slender Adonis, the gentle lieutenant himself. 
Pshaw, Janet, how can you suppose that I should endure such 
a wliipt-syllabub sort of creature] You must have pitied me, 
bearing, Avith no hope of escape, his rhapsodies about music 
and poetry — moonlight and bandana handkerchiefs ; for he 
mixed matters up in such inextricable confusion, that I could 
have laughed in his face, hut that it required some effort to 
-overcome the stupid languor with which he possessed me. 
Yon needn’t smile, Janet — he did — he was a most delicate 
bore.” 

“ And you really desire me to believe. Rose, that he has 
made no interest in your heart]” was the response of Janet to 
all this tirade. The graver maiden of the two seemed dis- 


SHARP PASSAGES AT ARMS. 


179 


posed to adopt some of tlie light humor of her companion, and 
annoy her after her own fasliion, 

“Interest ! lieart ! — how can you talk such stuff, Janet, and 
look so serious all the while? You should be pelted with 
pine-burs, and I will undertake your punishment before the 
day is well over. By-the-way, talking of pine-burs, I am 
reminded, though I don’t see why, of the strange blear-eyed 
countryman. What a curious creature, with that stiff, straight 
black hair — so glossy black — and those eyes that seem pop- 
ping from his head, and look of all colors; and then the rigid, 
yet loose fixture of his limbs, that seem like those of a statue, 
drawn asunder, and left hanging by the merest ligatures. 
What a queer creature!” 

“ He seems poor and humble,” replied Janet, “ and is 
probably affected mentally. He seen^s idiotic.” 

“ Not he — not he ! His gaze is too concentrative and too 
fixed, to indicate a wandering intellect : then, why his fre- 
quent conversations with that bull-necked lover of yours, Bars- 
field ? Did he not take him into the woods when the country- 
man came back yesterday evening, and keep him there a full 
hour? I tell you what, Janet, that fellow’s a spy ; he’s after 
no good here : and, as I live, here he is, coming back full 
tilt upon his crooked pony, that’s just as queer and ugly as 
himself.” 

As she said, Blonay reappeared at this moment, and the 
dialogue ceased accordingly between the maidens. The half- 
breed grinned with an effort at pleasantness as he bowed to 
them, and, speaking a few words to Mr. Berkeley, as if in 
explanation of his return, he proceeded to loiter about the 
grounds. The eyes of Rose watched him narrowly, and with 
no favorable import ; but Blonay did not seem to heed her 
observation. He now sauntered in the park, and now he 
leaned against a tree in the pleasant sunshine; and, by his 
torpid habit of body, seerneH to justify Janet to her more lively 
cousin in the opinion which she had uttered of his idiocy. 
But the scout was never more actively employed than just 
when he seeiried most sluggish. He was planning the sale of 
Marion’s camp to Tarleton. He was loitering about Piney 


180 


MELLICflAMPE. 


Grove, with the double object of being nigh his enemy’s hiding- 
place and of meeting with the legionary. 

“He is a spy, Janet. He has been put here as a watch 
over us and upon Mellichampe. Barsfield knows Mellichampe 
to be rash, as he has shown himself, and he has put that 
fellow here to look out for and shoot him.” 

Janet shuddered, and her eyes ^voluntarily turned to the 
spot where, at a little distance, the half-breed stood leaning 
against a tree. How imploring was the expression of her 
eye ! Could he have seen it, if such were his purpose, he must 
have relented. Such was the thought of Hose — such the 
hope of Janet. The scout had seen that look — he had felt 
its expression. 

“ But where is he now, Janet was the question of Rose a 
few moments after. He was gone, and so stealthily, they had 
not suspected his movement. The half-breed was again upon 
the track of his enemy. 

Barsfield, meanwhile, though dispensing with the attendance 
of Blonay, did not fail to avail himself, in one respect, of the 
information which the latter had given him. The proximity 
of Marion in the swamp, with a hundred men or more, aroused 
the tory to increased exertion, and counselled the utmost pru- 
dence in his march, as it showed the neighborhood of so supe- 
rior an enemy. The arms, baggage, clothing, and ammuni- 
tion, intended to supply a large body of tories, and which were 
intrusted to his charge, were of far more importance to his 
present purposes than of real intrinsic value. Not to deliver 
them safely into the hands of those who were to employ them, 
and whom he was to employ, would be to suffer dreadfully in 
the estimation of his British superiors, and in his own personal 
interests. To have them fall into the hands of the rebels, 
were to accumulate evil upon evil, as no acquisition which the 
latter could make at this period could be of greater importance 
It was well for him that these suggestions filled the mind of 
the tory. He was a tolerable soldier cn a small scale, and 
was already well conversant with the ])artisan warfare. He 
sent forward a few trusty horsemen to reconnoitre and keep 
ihe advance ; and, moving cautiously and with watchful eyei^ 


SHARP PASSAGES AT ARMS. 


181 


he hoped to make his way without interruption. But he was 
not fated to do so, as we shall see anon. 

Major Singleton, having a more extended line of country to 
traverse, and a greater variety of duties to perform, started 
from the swamp at dusk, and some time before the rest. Mar- 
ion set forth by midnight ; and Captain Melton, after attend- 
ing to some matters of minor importance, led off his little corps 
an hour later. Our attention will chiefly be given to this lat- 
ter band, of which Ernest Mellichampe was the first-lieutenant, 
and Jack Witherspoon the orderly. By the dawn they found 
themselves at one of the lower crossing-places upon the river, 
probably that at which it would be the aim of Barsfield to 
cross ; but, as this was uncertain, it was not the policy of Mel- 
ton to await him there. The position was by no means good, 
and the ground too much broken for the free use of cavalry. 

With the dawn, therefore, Melton moved his troop slowly 
up the road, intending to place them in ambush behind a thick 
wood which lay in their route, and which had been already 
designated for this purpose. The road ran circuitously tlirongh 
this wood, forming a defile; around which a proper disposition 
of his force must have been successful, and must have resulted 
in the destruction or capture of the entire force of the tories. 
The spot was well known to the partisans, and had been de- 
termined upon, even before the party left the river, as well 
adapted, beyond any other along the road, for the contempla- 
ted encounter. It lay but seven miles off, and one hour’s quick 
riding would have enabled them to reach and secure it. But 
Melton pursued a regular, or rather a cautious gait, uhich, 
under other circumstances, and at another time, would have 
been proper enough. But now, when the object was the at- 
tainment of a particular station, a forced movement became 
essential, in most part, to their success; certainly to that plan 
of surprise which they had in view. Mellichampe more than 
once suggested this to his superior officer ; but the latter was 
one of those persons who have solemn and inveterate habits, 
from which they never depart. His horse had but one gait, 
and to that he was accustomed. His rider had but a single 
tune, and that was a dead march. The consequences of thesi! 


182 


MELLICHAMPE. 


peculiarities was a funeral movement on the present occasion, 
and no argument of Mellichampe could induce Melton to urge 
the advance more briskly. He cursed the monotonous drone 
in his heart; and, biting his lips until the blood started from 
them, he predicted to himself that the party would be too 
late. 

And so indeed it happened. Barsfield, whom the intelli- 
gence brought by Blonay had prompted to renewed speed in 
liis movements, had set forth, as we have seen, by the dawn 
of day, and was upon the road quite as soon as Melton, who 
had been travelling half the night. Had the counsel of Melli- 
champe been taken, the desired position would have been 
gained easily by the partisans ; for, as it lay a little nearer to 
“ Piney Grove” than to the swamps, and as Barsfield, though 
urging his course forward with all due rapidity, was unavoid- 
ably compelled to move slowly, burdened as he was with his 
baggage-wagons, nothing could have been more easy than to 
have attained it with a proper effort. 

But Melton was not the man to make an effort — he had no 
mind for an occasion ; and the force of habit, with him, was 
far more controlling than any impulse from necessity. Such 
a man is no genius. He stopped his troop here and there, to 
scour this or that suspicious-looking growth of underwood — 
sent out his scouts of observation, as if he had been engaged 
in the vague and various duties of the forager, instead of push- 
ing forward with the single object — the performance of the task 
which he had in hand. The consequence of this blundering 
was foreseen, and partially foretold, by the indignant Melli- 
champe, who could scarcely restrain his anger within terms 
of courtesy. Bitterly aroused, he was ready almost for revolt ; 
and, but for the presence of the danger, and the necessity of 
turning his wrath in the more legitimate direction of his ene- 
mies, it was apparent to all, that, from the harsh tones and 
stern looks interchanged by the two officers, an outbreak must 
soon have followed. 

But the thoughts of all were turned to other objects, as, sud- 
denly, one of their troopers rode up, informing Melton of the 
approach of Barsfield, close at hand. He had only time to mar- 


SHARP PASSAGES AT ARMS. 


183 


ehal his men on the side of a little copse and bay that lay be- 
tween himself and the foe, when the heavy tramp of the cavalry 
and the creaking wheels of the baggage-wagons were heard at 
a little distance. A timely resolution, even then, though com 
paratively unprepared, might yet have retrieved the error 
which the commander of the troop had committed ; but his 
looks \vere now indecisive, his movements uncertain, and he 
gave his orders for a change of position, imagining that a bet- 
ter stand presented itself a little distance back. 

“ This must not be, Captain Melton !” cried Mellichampe, 
indignantly. “ It is quite too late^sir, to think of any such 
change. A retrograde movement full in the face of an advan- 
cing enemy, will have the effect of a retreat upon our troop, 
and give the enemy all the advantage of our panic and con- 
fusion, together with the courage and confidence which our 
seeming flight must inspire in them. We can not change now, 
and we must make the best of our position. Had my advice 
been minded — ** 

He was interrupted as the close sounds of the advancing 
tories met his ears. Melton saw the impossibility of any change 
now, and the discovery, on his part, produced in his mind all 
the feelings of surprise and discomfiture which he had planned 
for the reception of his foe. He gave his orders, it is true ; 
but he did not look the officer to his men, and they did not 
feel with him. Not so witn Mellichampe: the few words 
which had passed in the hearing of the troop between him and 
his commander — the air of fierce decision which his features 
wore — the conscious superiority which they indicated — were 
all so many powerful spells of valor, which made the brave 
fellows turn their eyes upon him as upon their true leader. 

And so he was. The imbecility of Melton became more 
conspicuous as the moment of trial approached. He halted, 
hung back, as the enemy entered upon the little defile in 
which only it could be attacked ; and thus exposed his me^i, 
when the attack was made, to all the disadvantages arising 
from a suffered surprise. It was then that the impatient blood 
of Mellichampe, disdaining all the restraints of discipline, 
urged him forward in the assault with a fierce shout to his 


184 


MELLICIIAMPE. 


men, and a scornful jeer almost in the ears of his commander, 
as, driving his good steed before him, he advanced to the 
charge, which he made with so much force and impetuosity as 
at once to stagger the progress of the tories. 

Barsfield was, just then, emerging from the pass — a little 
cornfield, with its worm-fence enclosure, lay on one hand, and, 
on the other, the woods were open and free from undergrowth 
It was here that Melton’s men had been posted, not so advan- 
tageously as they would have been had they reached the spot 
which Marion had designated for them ; but sufficiently well 
to have rendered the attac^ successful under a spirited charge 
such as that made by Mellichampe. But the information 
which Barsfield had received from Blonay had made him ex- 
tremely cautious, as we have already seen, and he had prop- 
erly prepared himself against, and was on the look-out for, 
assaults like the present. With the first appearance of the 
enemy, his men were ordered to display themselves in open 
order ; the wagons were suffered to fall behind, and were car- 
ried back under the escort of a single dragoon to the spot 
from which they had started in the morning. To this effect 
the instructions of Barsfield had been already given. Free 
and unencumbered, the tory met his enemy boldly, and re- 
ceived him with a discharge of pistols. The steed of Melli- 
champe was at this moment careering within a few paces of 
him. The sabre of the youth waving above his head, and, 
with a bitter smile, rising in his stirrups, he cried out, as he 
prepared to cross weapons with his enemy — 

“ Dog of a tory, we have a clear field now ! There are 
none to come between us. Strike, villain, and strike well ; 
for, by my father’s blood, I will give you no quarter!’^ 

Barsfield calmly seemed to await his approach, and exhib- 
ited no lack of courage: yet his sabre was unlifted — his bri- 
dle lay slackened in his hand ; and, but for his erect posture 
and firm seat, it might be supposed that he was a mere looker- 
on in the affray. He replied to the furious language of his 
youthful opponent in tones and language as fierce. 

“You may swear by your own blood soon, boy, or I much 
mistake your chances.” 


SIIAKP PASSAGES AT ARMS. 


185 


The sabre of the ybutli glared in Iiis face at this reply, and 
tlie movement of the tory was made in another instant with 
all the rapidity of thought. His horse, under the quick im- 
pulse of a heavy bit, was brought round in a moment : in an- 
other, a huge pistol was drawn from his holsters, and the 
careering steed of Mellichampe received the bullet meant for 
his master in his own breast. He fell forward upon his knees, 
made an imperfect effort to rise, and the next moment plunged 
desperately and struggled almost under the feet of Barsfield's 
liorse. A few seconds sufficed for Mellichampe’s extrication ; 
and he was barely in time by throwing up his sabre, to arrest 
the stroke of his enemy’s. On foot he now pressed forward 
upon Barsfield, and sought to close so nearly in with him as 
to make it difficult for him to employ his sabre, unless by 
shortening it too greatly to permit of his using it with any ad- 
vantage. But the tory saw his design, and immediattdy 
backed his steed. Mellichampe pursued him with his accus- 
tomed rashness, and must certainly have been slain by the 
tory, who had now drawn another pistol from his holster, when 
Witherspoon, who had been hotly engaged, but had seen with 
anxiety the contest between the two enemies, now rushed be 
tween; and, setting the huge and splendid horse Avhich he 
rode directly in the teeth of that of Barstield, the shock of 
their meeting threw the latter completely upon his haunches, 
and nearly unseated his rider. 

The sabres of Barsfield and Witherspoon then clashed hur- 
riedly, and, though chafed to be robbed of his prey even by 
his friend, Mellichampe was compelled to forbear his par 
ticular game, and turn his attention entirely to his own safety 
A horse plunged by him riderless, which he was fortunat ; 
enough to seize ; and he was mounted opportunely just as ? 
fresh charge of the tories separated Witherspoon from his op 
ponent, whom he had pressed back into the defile. This charge 
drove the sergeant, in his turn, down upon the original posi 
tion of the attacking party. The impulse was for a few mo- 
ments irresistible, and two or three of the men fairly turned 
their horses and fled from before it. Captain Melton seeing 
this, gave the orde- co retreat, and the trumpet sounded the 


186 


MELLICIIAMrE. 


quick and mortifying signal. But tlie voice of the youthful 
Mellichampe sounded even above the shrill alarum of the in- 
strument, as, with a desperate blow with his sabre, he struck 
the recreant trumpeter to the earth. 

“Shame to you, men of Marior ! — shame! — do you fly 
from the tories of Waccamaw? Do you give back before the 
Winyah mud-eaters? Follow me!” 

The cry of Witherspoon was yet more characteristic, and, 
perhaps, far more potential. 

“ You forget, boys, sartainly, that the tories find it nateral 
to be licked ; and if they was to lick you now, that’s licked 
them so often, they wouldn’t know what to do for joy. Turn 
to, and let’s lick ’em ag’in !” 

The call was not made in vain. True valor is quite as con- 
tagious as fear, since it is always quite as earnest. The parti- 
sans heard the words of their leaders — they saw the headlong 
rush of their steeds ; and they rushed forward also with as 
generous an emotion. They were received with a front quite 
as firm, and a spirit not less forward than their own. The 
tories, too, had been inspirited by their success in the first 
shock, and, with loud cheers, they prepared for the second. 
The encounter, as it was made just at the mouth of the defile, 
a circumscribed position, where each man found his opponent, 
had something of the character of the mixed fight of the mid- 
dle ages. 

The rush was tremendous ; the strife, for a few moments, 
terrible. But all in vain did the eye of Mellichampe distin- 
guish, and his spirit burn once more to contend with his deadly 
enemy. They were kept asunder by the tide • f battle. The 
ranks were broken ; the fight became pell-mell ; and, on a 
sudden, while each man was contending with his enemy, a 
fierce cry of triumph and of vengeance burst from the lips of 
Barsfield himself. Mellichampe, though closely engaged with 
a stout dragoon, suffered his eye to seek the spot whence the 
sound arose, and once beheld its occasion. Barsfield had been 
contending w'A a slender, but fine-looking youth, whom he 
had disarmed. The hand of his conqueror had torn him froiri 
his hjrse with all the strength of a giant. The youth lay ai 


SHARP PASSAGES AT ARMS. 


187 


his feet, resting upon one hand, looking partly upon his foe 
and partly round, as if imploring succor from his friends. 
Mellicliampe distinguished the features instantly, though 
smeared with blood. They were those of Gabriel Marion, the 
nephew of the general, a youth of nineteen only. 

“ He shall not die, by Heaven !” cried Mellicliampe aloud ; 
in the same moment, with a daring effort, drawing his horse 
back from the encounter with the enemy with whom he was 
engaged, as if in flight — a movement which, encouraging the 
other to press forward, disordered his guard, and placed him 
at disadvantage. Meeting his stroke, Mellicliampe set it read 
ily aside ; then, striking in turn at the head of his oppo- 
nent, he put spurs to his horse, without looking to see what 
had been the effect of his blow, and, passing quickly beyond 
him, rushed forward to meet with Barsfield. But, as he ap 
proached, he saw that -nothing could be done for the youth, 
whose hand was uplifted — a frail defence — in opposition to 
his conqueror’s weapon. 

“ Stay, Barsfield — strike him not, scoundrel, or look for the 
vengeance — ” 

But, ere the speech was finished, the youth leaped once more 
to his feet, and the weapon meant for his head passed over it. 
Young Marion then grasped the sword-arm of his enemy ; but, 
drawing his remaining pistol in the same moment, Barsfield 
shot him through the breast. 

The’ cry of grief on the one hand, and of triumph on the 
other, contributed greatly to discourage the partisans. That 
moment was fatal to several more in their ranks, and the 
disparity offeree was now in favor of the tories. They Avere 
soon conscious of the fact, and pressed upon their enemies. 
Stung with shame, Mellicliampe made a desperate effort, and, 
nobly seconded by a few, threw himself in the path of the 
enemy, and bravely disputed every inch of ground, yielding 
it only under the pressure of numbers. 

“ I can not fly, Witherspoon — speak not of it, I tell you. I 
* know that the odds are against us, but we must only strike the 
oftener.” 


188 


MEI.LTCHAMPE. 


“ Well, Airnest, jist as you say. You know best, if you 
like it ; and so, knock away’s the word.” 

Two or three brief sentences between the friends conveyed 
the difficulties and dangers of the scene and the spirit of the 
combatants. The partisans fought well, but they grew weaker 
in numbers and individual strength with every movement of 
tlie protracted battle. They had not well calculated the dif- 
ference of personal capacity for strife and endurance of fatigue 
between drilled men and volunteers ; and, though the spirit 
of the latter for a time, is more than a match for the harden- 
ing practice of the former, yet it very seldom endures so well. 

“ I will perish on this field — I will not leave it, and show 
my back to that scoundrel ! Come on, men ! — come on, With- 
erspoon ! — let us pluck up spirit for another — a last — a des- 
perate charge. I must meet with Barsfield, now ; there are 
too few on either side to keep us long apart.” 

A brief pause in the combat, as if by tacit consent, enabled 
Mellichampe, in the breathing time which it afforded, to con- 
vey this suggestion and resolve to the few fierce spirits still 
gnthering around him — driven back, but not yet defeated — 
dispirited, perhaps, but far from subdued. They freely pledg- 
ed themselves to the resolution, and, with a cheer, as if they 
had been going to a banquet, they drove the rowels into their 
jaded steeds, and joined once more in the struggle. But the 
weapons had scarcely crossed, and the close strife had not yet 
begun Avhen the shrill notes of a bugle rang through the wood 
to the left of the combatants. 

“ It is Singleton’s trumpet,” cried Mellichampe aloud to hh 
men ; and a cheer of encouragement involuntarily went up from 
their lips as they listened to the grateful music. In the next 
moment, at full gallop, the reinforcement of Singleton came 
plunging forward to the rescue from the woods on every side, 
while the full-toned voice of their gallant leader shouted to 
the fainting combatants to strike on without faltering. Bars- 
field, so lately confident of his triumph over his enemy, and 
of his vengeance upon the one foe, in particular, about to be 
realized, was compelled to forego the prey almost within his 
grasp. 


SHARP PASSAGES AT .ARMS. 


1^7 

“ Nov/, may tlie hell have him that fights for him !” cried 
the disappointed tory, as, with the first appearance of Single- 
ton’s troop, he ordered his own bugles to sound the retreat. 
Clearing, with terrible blows, the few enemies that were yet 
clinging around him, Barsfield wheeled furiously in his flight, 
while, close at his heels, pursuing to the very gates of Piney 
Grove, but not fast enough to overtake him, Singlej;on urged for- 
ward his wearied animals in the fond hope of annihilating « 
foe so insolent, and who promised to became so troublesome. 


190 


MTCLLICIIA.MP1‘. 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE maiden’s gift. 

Barsfield had neither ridden so far, nor in such haste, as 
the partisans that morning. This alone saved him. His 
horses were inferior ; and, but for the fatigue which his ene- 
mies had undergone, he must have been overtaken. The judi- 
cious disposition which the tory had made of his baggage- 
wagons, in sending them back to Piney Grove at the first ap- 
pearance of danger, also contributed greatly to the facility of 
his movements;, and, unimpeded by the necessity of guarding 
them, and not much breathed by the stirring encounter througli 
which they had passed, the stout horses his men bestrode, 
though not so swift as those of the Americans, was yet better 
able to make headway in the flight. The pursuit was hotly 
urged, though unsuccessful. The horses of Singleton were too 
much jaded with the hard ride of twenty odd miles which 
they had taken, and could not be made to keep up even with 
the fagged animals of Mellichampe’s little troop. Barsfield 
escaped them, and safely passed through the avenue of Piney 
Grove before the pursuing party came in sight. 

The baggage-wagons of the tory had just arrived, and, with 
a sagacious disposition of his force, which indicated ability 
worthy of a better cause, he proceeded to make efPective ar- 
rangements for the reception of Singleton’s troop, which was 
quite too large to sufiPer him to think that so enterprising a 
partisan would draw them ofP without a farther attempt upon 
him. Dismounting his men rapidly, therefore, he threw open 
the doors of the basement story of the mansion ; and, without 


THE maiden’s Girr. 


191 


lea/e asked or given — tlie exigency was too pressing for mere 
courtesies — he made his dragoons stable their steeds in the 
spacious apartmentsv Emptying the baggage-wagons of their 
contents, he armed his men with the muskets, of which there 
{vas sufficient provision ; and, having secured tlie residue of 
their stores within the walls of the dwelling-house, he proceed- 
ed, to the great disquiet of Mr. Berkeley, and the terror of the 
young ladies, to close the doors and make a fortress of the 
family mansion. The upper rooms were barricaded with chairs 
and tables ; and, watchful at all the windows, the troopers stood 
ready Avith their muskets peei’ng fo'.':h ccnsnicuously and warn- 
ingly in all directions from the bu’lding. 

This was scarcely done, when the partisans came down the 
avenue. It was with no little A^exation that Singleton sur- 
veyed this prospect. His eye at a moment beheld the difficul- 
ties of his situation, and lIic danger of any assault upon a foe 
so well prepared. To rush on brick walls, and be met by 
musket-bullets, without being able to obtain sight of the de- 
fenders, was not the part of a discreet valor; and yet, to leave 
an enemy so enfeebled as Barsfield was, without further efforts 
to overcome or destroy him, was still more irksome to. a brave 
spirit like that of the officer in command. The rash and head- 
long Mellichampe, however, thinking only of his personal hos- 
tility to Barsfield, could hardly be restrained. He was for 
immediately charging, and trying the weight of an axe upon 
the doors of the dwelling. 

“Ay, ay; but how to get there?” cried the more sagacious 
Singleton. “ No, no, Mellichampe. we must try some better 
plan — some safer enterprise. To cross the yard in the teeth 
of those muskets would be certain death to nearly every man 
who makes the effort, and we are but too poorly provided with 
soldiers to be thus profligate. We must think of something 
else ; and, in order to have time for it, let us send a message 
to the tory. Let us see what fair words will do, and the prem- 
ise of good quarter. Besides, we must make some arrange- 
ments for getting the family out of the house before making 
any assault.” 

The truth of these suggestions was unquestionable ; and Met- 


192 


MELLICITAMPE. 


licliampe volunteered to bear the despatches, but SingletCB 
refused him. 

“ No, no ; the risk will be great to you ; and the tory hates 
you too well to stop at trifles. He might be tempted to some 
desperate act if you are to be the messenger. I prefer With 
erspoon. ’ 

“ Jist as you say, major ; I’m ready, as the alligator said to 
the duck. I’m ready ; though I a’n’t a great speaker, yet I 
can tell Barsfield what he’s to reckon on if he don’t come to 
tarms. If so be all I’ve got to say is to tell him he’ll be licked 
if he don’t give up. and s'i.;':.*snder, I can do that easy enough,” 
was the prompt speech of the scout. 

“You know there’s danger, itherspoon,” said Singleton. 
“ This fellow Barsfield may not think it becoming to treat with 
a rebel ; and he may send a bullet, through the head of a cou- 
rier, and think no sin of it.” 

“Well, he’d be a mean skunk to do sich a thing, major; 
that's agin all the civilities of v/ar. I knows there’s danger, 
but I can’t help it. ‘ Man that is born of woman,’ says the 
Scripture — I don’t rightly call to mind the other part — but it 
means that we’ve all got to die some time or other, and ’ta’n’t 
the part of a brave man to be always dodging from danger. I 
must take my chance, major, so git your paper ready.” 

Singleton pencilled brief but honorable proposals to the tory, 
pledging the enlargement of himself and party on parole if 
they would surrender; and denouncing otherwise the well- 
known horrors of a storm. A permission, in the event of his 
refusal to surrender, was exterded to Mr. Berkeley and his 
family, but no other person, to leave the beleaguered dwelling, 
y/ith erspoon received the paper, and prepared to depart. 

“Mayn’t I carry my rifle, major? — I don’t feel altogether 
natural when I don’t have it, partic’larly when I’m to go seek 
my enemy.” 

“ No arms, Witherspoon ; nothing but the flag.” 

He handed the weapon to Mellichampe with no small reluc- 
tance. 

“ Take care of her, Airnest ; she’s a sweet critter, and mak^ 
• crack that’s born music, and I loves her.” 


'Jin: maii3kn’s gift. 


103 


With no more words, and with a single glance toward the 
youth, that spoke volumes of affection warmly and truly felt, 
the scout, without any hesitation, turned away from the park 
where this conference was carried on; and, waving his hand 
kerchief aloft — the substitute for a flag — he proceeded on his 
way of peril to the dwelling. 

“ I see a rebel with a flag !” said one of the tories, who first 
discerned the despatch, to his commander. “ Shall I shoot 
him, sir?” 

The hesitation of Barsfield to reply was almost a permission, 
and the man had his gun lifted and ready ; but the tory cap- 
tain thought it more proper or more prudent to forbear. 

“No; let him come: and you, Clayton, receive him at the 
entrance. But see that no other approaches. Fire at tlie first 
man who appears wdthin reach of your muskets.” 

In an inner room, in the presence of the family, Barsfield 
received the messenger. His reply to the message was one of 
scornful disdain. 

“ Well, now, cappin,” said Thumbscrew, coolly, “ you’d bet- 
ter not send any sich word to the major, for he’s old hell with 
his grinders, and it’ll be pretty bad for you if he once gits them 
into your flesh. They’ll meet, now, I tell you, if he docs.” 

“ You are answered,” Avas the temperate reply of the tory, 
who then turned to Mr. Berkeley. 

“ The rebel graciously accords you permission, with your 
family, to leave the (fwelling, Mr. Berkeley. You are at per- 
fect liberty to do so, if you please ; but, if you will rely on my 
defences, there is no danger : the place is perfectly tenable.” 

“No, no, dear father — let us go — let us fly. There is dan- 
ger ; and, even if there be none, it is no place for us.” 

“ But where shall we go, my daughter ?” said the old man, 
utterly bewildered. 

“ To the overseer’s house, father. It is out of the reach of 
all danger, and there is room enough for us all.” 

They came forth with Witherspoon, who led them at once 
into the park, Avhere Mellichampe received and escorted them 
to the dwelling-house of the overseer, a rude but spacious 
building, that stood in a field running along at a little distance 

* y 


1 94 ’ MELIJCHAMPE. 

to the west of the avenue, within sigjit and hearing of the 
mansion-lioiise, but beyond reach of fire-arms from tliat quarter 
It was a moment of sweet sorrow, that which Mellichampe and 
Jamet enjoyed in the brief intervieAv Avhich the necessities of 
the time permitted them. The cheerful and stimulating 
sounds of the trumpet recalled him to his duties, and, Avith a 
word of encouragement and hope, which Avas ansAvered by her 
tears, he hurried aAvay to the field of strife, and the presence 
of the energetic Singleton. • 

“ Lieutenant Mellichampe, take your men, throw down yon- 
der panels, and cross into the garden ; keep them under cover 
where the shelter is sufficient to conceal your movement, and 
liaA’-e your horses then fastened at the foot of the hill rising on 
the right. A couple of sentries will guard them there. This 
done, return to the post assigned you in the garden, covering 
the dwelling on the rear with your rifles.” 

Mellichampe moved promptly, in obedience to his orders, 
and soon succeeded in securing possession of the garden. 
Dividing his command in such a manner as to place a similar 
body of men in watch over each quarter of the building, 
Singleton proceeded to try the effect of his rifles upon such of 
the defenders as Avere more than necessarily exposed. His 
men were dismounted for this purpose, their horses secured in 
safety, and each man Avas put in possession of his tree. 

To the rifles of Singleton the muskets of Barsfield’s party 
readily responded, and, for a few moments, the din and uproar 
were continued Avith no little spirit. The musketry soon 
ceased, however. Barsfield disco \'ered that it was not his 
policy to risk his men, two of whom had fallen in this overture, 
in any such unequal conflict. The certainty of the rifle, in 
such hands as those of the partisans, was too great a danger 
to be wantonly opposed by musket-men. There Avas no ne- 
cessity for any such exposure on the part of the besieged : all 
that they were required to do was to keep watch upon the 
area beloAV, and prevent the nearer approach of the beleaguer- 
ing party. After a few rounds, therefore, had shoAvn what re- 
sults must follow such a combat, Barsfield forbade the firing from 
the house, and commanded that his men should lie close, only 


THE maiden’s Oiirr. 


195 


watcliing for an occasional exposure of the persons of their 
enemies within certain reach of their muskets. 

The bugle of Singleton called up his officers. They assem- 
bled, .as at a central and safe point, at the overseer’s dwelling, 
to which the family of Mr. Berkeley had retired. A small 
room was assigned the partisans, and there they carried on 
their hurried deliberations. 

“ This is child’s play, gentlemen,” said Singleton ; “ can we 
find no better mode of dislodging these rascals ? Our shot do 
little good now. There is no object to aim at. Barsfiehl has 
discovered the difference between rifled and smooth bore, and 
keeps too snug to suffer any harm at our hands. We must 
think of something, gentlemen ; and it must be done quickly, 
or not at all, for Tarleton’s on the road, and we must beat 
Barsfield by noon, or leave him. What do you say ? I should 
be pleased, gentlemen, to have your suggestions.” 

“ Many men, many minds.” It would be needless to say, 
that there must be various counsels when there are many coun- 
sellors. Each had his notion and his plan, but to all there 
were objections. Humphries, at length, proposed to fire the 
dwelling. All agreed that this was the wisest suggestion — 
the effective plan, if it could only be made available. But 
who was to carry the fire to the fortress — who was to cross 
the yard, in the teeth of thirty muskets, and “ bell the cat” ? 
and wdiat would be the chances of his life, or of his success, in 
the endeavor ? This was the question, to wdiich there was no 
ready answer. It was obvious enough that any one approach 
ing the building with such a purpose, or with any purpose, as 
an enemy, must be shot down by its defenders. A silence of 
several minutes followed the utterance of these views by Sin- 
gleton. The silence was broken by one — a slender, pale, and 
trembling youth, who emerged from behind the commander. 
His lips quivered as he spoke, but it was not with fear. His 
eye kindled with light, even while its long dark lashes seemed 
suffused with the dews of a tender heart. 

“ I will go, major,” were his quickly-uttered words. 

“You, Lance? — why, boy, you will be shot down instantly. 
Impossible! — you must not think of it!” was the imperative 
reply. 


196 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


'‘But, sir, I can run fast: I can first get to tlie fallen tree 
and so quickly, I don’t tliink they can hit me in that time; 
and then the next push is for the piazza. Once I get under 
the piazza, I will he safe and the lad trembled with his own 
earnestness. 

“ Perhaps you might, Lance, but it would be impossible to 
preserve your fire in such a race, and the risk is too great to 
be undertaken with such a prospect.” 

Singleton was imperative, but the youth continued to urge 
his plan. At that moment a servant, entering the apartment, 
beckoned Mellichampe away. He was sent for by Janet, who 
received him in the adjoining room. 

“ I have heard,” said she, “ some of your deliberations with- 
out intending it: but your voices are loud, and these are thin 
partitions. The youth must not be suffered to go to certain 
death. I understand your difficulty, and think it may be 
overcome. I have a plan for you.” 

“You!” exclaimed Mellichampe, with a smile. 

“ Yes : look at this bow and these arrows,” pointing to a 
noble shaft, which leaned in the corner of the room ; “ they 
were the gift of a Catawba warrior to my father when I was 
but a child. They are as good as new. They will convey 
combustibles to the roof — they will do what you desire.” 

“ But your old home — your family dwelling, Janet — sacred 
to you as your birthplace, and as the birthplace of your 
mother — ” was the suggestion of her lover. 

“ Sacred as my home, as my own and my mother’s birth- 
place, it is yet doubly sacred as my country's. Place your 
combustibles upon these arrows, and send them to the aged 
roof of that family mansion ; and I shall not joy the less to see 
It burn because it is my father’s, and should be mine, when T 
know that in its ruin the people and the cause I love must 
triumph. God forbid and keep me from the mean thought 
that I shall lose by that which to my country must be so great 
a gain.” 

The wondering and delighted Mellichampe could only look 
his admiration. She stood before him, with her dark eye 
flashing, but suffused, and her lip trembling with the awful 


THE maiden’s gift. 


19V 


patriotism and warm feeling in her soul, as the very imbodi- 
ment of liberty itself — that divine imbodiment whose sub- 
stance is truth, whose light is life, whose aim is a perfect 
humanity. 

“Dearest Janet — worthy of adoration as of love — your 
self-sacrificing spirit is a rebuke to my own heart. I would 
have saved that mansion for your sake, though even my enemy 
— my deadly enemy — should escape his just punishment 
thereby.” 

“Go, Ernest,” she responded, “go! — you have no time to 
lose. Let not that noble youth expose himself to certain death. 
Take the arrows, and do not let the hand tremble and the eye 
turn aside when you direct them to that sacred roof ; it is now 
devoted to our country.” 

He seized the bow and arrows, carried her hand to his lips, 
and rushed back to the place of conference. Singleton was 
overjoyed when the primitive weapon was put into his hands. 

“Happy chance! — and who has given you these, Melli- 
champe V 

“ A woman 1” 

“ What, Miss Berkeley V* 

“ Yes” 

“And with a knowledge of their probable use?” 

“ With the avowed purpose of destroying by them her 
father’s dw^elling and her own.” 

“Noble creature!” was the only exclamation of Singleton. 
The thoughts of his mind wandering aw'ay, at that instant, 
without his power to control them; and, in his mind’s eye, lie 
surveyed the form of another self-sacrificing maiden — how 
different from Janet Berkeley in form and character, but ob. ! 
how very like in soul. 


m 


MKLrJCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

CAPRICES OF THE CONFLICT. 

With the overruling judgment of a master-spirit, Singleton 
immediately proceeded to make his arrangements. To Melli- 
champe he gave orders to remount his men, and, leading them 
around the park, once more gain possession of the avenue. 
Here he was to await the result of the experiment, and to 
intercept the flight of the tories when they should be driven out 
from their fortress by the progress of the flames. Humphries 
was commanded to scatter his riflemen around the mansion, 
keeping close watch upon every movement of the garrison 
within : while two or three of the men, more experienced in 
such matters, were occupied in preparing the combustibles' 
which were to be fastened to the lighted arrows. Singleton 
himself took charge of the bow; and, laying aside his sword 
and every weapon Avhich was calculated to encumber his 
movement, himself prepared to discharge the more arduous 
part of the proposed experiment. His commands were nearly 
all instantly and simultaneously executed. A lively blast of 
the bugle, from various quarters of the grounds, gave token of 
concerted preparation. Arming himself with the prepared 
arrows, the partisan advanced. 

“ Lie close, men ! lie close !” he cried, as he saw several of 
them emerging from shelter ; “ Lie close and watch the win^ 
dows. Go back, Lance, and have your rifle in readiness.” 

With’ these words he advanced quickly but stealthily, and 
with a heedful movement, from one tree to another, until, 
reaching the inner limit of the park, he looked dowVi upon the 
yard immediately around the dwelling, and saw that from that 
part he could certainly send his arrows to the roof. 


CAPRICES OF THE CONFLICT. 


100 


Coolly preparing himself, therefore, while all behind him 
were breathlessly watching, now their commander and now tlie 
dwelling. Singleton fell hack for an instant, and closely ob- 
served the probable distance and height of the roof; then ad- 
vancing to the tree, and planting his right foot firmlj’ behind 
him, he drew the long arrow to the head, until the missiles 
which were attached to it grazed against the bended hack of 
the elastic yew. In another instant, and the meteor-like shaft 
Avent whizzing and kindling through the air, darting on Avith a 
true aim and unvarying flight, until, to the delight of the watch- 
ing partisans, it buried itself, blazing all the while, in the very 
bosom of the shingled roof. A long redoubled shout of ap- 
plause followed the achievement, and but a few moments had 
elapsed when Barsfield became conscious of the new danger 
which awaited him. 

Ha !” he cried, as he beheld the position Avhich Singleton 
had taken behind the tree, which, however, only in part con- 
cealed him. “ Send me a score of bullets at the rebel, or he 
will smoke us out like so many rats. Shoot, men ! take good 
aim, and stop him before it he too late.” 

A dozen muskets poured forth their contents in the direction 
of the daring partisan. The bullets flew all around him Avhere 
he stood, hut he stood unhurt. The moment after their fire 
Avas favorable to another effort; and, cool and thoughtful, 
Singleton Avas soon ready with a second shaft. Once more the 
whizzing arrow went blazing as fiercely and furiously as tlie 
first, and aimed with equal judgment at a different portion of 
the roof. Another and another followed in quick succession, 
in spite of the successive' volfeys of musketry which poured 
around him from the dwelling. In a little Avhile the success 
of the experiment was nO longer questionable. 

“It burns! it burns I” was the cry from the surrounding 
partisans, and the surface of the roof was now sprinkled Avitli 
jets of flame, that flickered along the dry shingles, gathering 
new bulk with every instant, and spreading themselves aAvay 
in thin layers of light, until the air, agitated into currents by 
the progress of the fire, contributed to send it in huge volumes, 
rolling cn and upward into the sky. Shout upon shout from 


200 


MKLLICHAMPE 


the lips of the partisans attested their joy, and congratulated 
their successful captain, through whose fearless and skilful 
agency the design had been effected. Their cheering cries, 
more than anything besides, announced to the tories the new 
dangers of their situation, and the desj)erate position in which 
they stood. Singleton well conceived what might be their 
course, and gave his orders accordingly. 

“ Riflemen ! stand by to watch the scuttle. Look out for 
the roof! Mark the scuttle, and shoot closely!" 

Ascending to the garret, by the aid of a little ladder which 
always stood there for such a purpose, Barsfield himself pro- 
ceeded to throw open the scuttle, when he was warned of the 
watchfulness of the besiegers by the sharp crack of the rifle, 
and the instantaneous passage of the bullet through the scut- 
tle door, and just above his head. 

“Too quick, Lance! too quick by half!" cried Singleton to 
the precipitate youth, who had fired before the tory’s head 
had made its appearance. The bOy sank back abashed and 
mortified. Barsfield, meanwhile, descended with much greater 
rapidity than satisfaction, and the dense smoke rushed down 
the aperture after him, filling the chambers with its suffocating 
and increasing masses. 

“ It burns like tinder, and we have no water," said Clayton. . 

“And if we had," cried Barsfield fiercely, “who in the 
devil’s name would apply it under the fire from those rifles'?" 

“And what are we to do?" cried one of the subordinates, 
emboldened by the near approach of a common danger; 

“ Shall we stay here to be smoked alive, like so many wild 
beasts in a hole ?" 

“ Should we not now surrender. Captain Barsfield, if we can 
get fair terms of quarter?" was the stiggestion of Clayton. 

“What! beg terms of that youngster? Never!" fiercely 
responded the tory. “ I will perish first !" 

“ Ay, but we shall all perish with you, and I see no good 
reason for that. Captain Barsfield," was the calmer speech of 
Clayton. “We should apply for quarters to any youngster, 
rather than be smoked alive." 

“And, if you did aj)j)ly, would they hear us, think you? 


CAPRICES OF THE CONFLICT 


201 


Would they grant us the terms which we have already refused 
with insult and disdain? No, no, Lieutenant Olayton ; they 
would cry ‘Tarleton’s quarters’ in your ears in answer to all 
your applications, and taunt you, while your limbs dangled 
up:)!! yonder oak, with our own good doings of the same sort.” 

“ What then ? Are we to stay here and perish by a death 
so horrid ? Shall we not rather sally forth and fight ?” 

“Yes, fight them to the last, of course,” was the response of 
Barsfield. “ There is a mode, and but one that I can see, 
of getting out from these difficulties. I’ve escaped a worse 
chance than this; and, with a good sword and stout heart, I 
fear not to escape from this.” 

“Speak, Barsfield — how?” cried Clayton, impatiently. 

“Mount our horses and cut our Avay through the rebcds. 
IMiey have dismounted and put their horses out of ready 
reach ; and, if we cut our way through them, we shall got 
start enough to keep ahead of them before they can mount.” 

“Ay, ay — a good enough plan, were we mounted ; but the 
first step that carries us beyond these walls puts us in the eye 
of their rifles. How shall we get to our horses, unless by first 
exposing ourselves in the piazza ?” 

“You are but young as a soldier. Lieutenant Clayton,” was 
the sarcastic response of the tory captain, “ and liave much to 
learn in the way of war and its escapes. I will show you how 
we shall reach the horses without exposing ourselves, until we 
rush forth, armed and upon their backs, prepared for figbt a.*^ 
well as our enemies. Every man will then be required to rely 
upon himself; and for the hindmost, God help him! for we 
may not. Where’s Fender?” he concluded, looking round 
among the men, whose faces the crowding smoke was already 
beginning to obscure. 

“ Here, sir,” cried the man, coming forward. 

“ Unsling your axe and throw off your jacket,” cried the 
tory, coolly : “ shut your mouth, if you please, sir; you can do 
nothing so long as you keep it thus ajar. Is your axe ready ?” 

“It is, sir,” was the reply ; and, under the direction of 
Barsfield, the soldiei proceeded to tear away the wasliboard 
which fastened down the edges of the floor, and then to rip up 

9 * 


202 


MELLICHAMPE. 


two or three boards of the floor itself — a duty soon performed 
by the vigorous axeman. By this time, however, the smoke 
had become dense and almost insupportable ; and the moment 
the aperture was made in the floor, admitting them to the 
lower or basement story, where the horses had been stabled, 
with a rapidity that defied all the efforts of their cooler com- 
mander, the tories, huddled upon one another, hurried and 
tumbled through, glad to escape from their late predicament, 
even with the chances before them of a hopeless and desperate 
struggle, such as Barsfield had painted to their eyes. 

The stern calmness of their leader, during all this proceed- 
ing, was creditable in the highest degree. He exhibited no 
hurry, no apprehension — none of that precipitate haste Avhich 
defeats execution, while it exhibits deficient character. When 
he got below, he himself saw that each man had niounted liis 
proper steed and stov,d in readiness, before he took the bridle 
of his OAvn. He then asked if all were ready ; he placed him- 
self in the advance, gave orders to one of the men to turn the 
latch, but not to unclose the door — a duty which he reserved 
to himself— and then addressed them in terms of the most 
encouraging composure. 

“ Have no fear, men ; but each man, as he passes througli 
the door, Avill at once strike for the entrance of the avenue. 
The brick foundations of the piazza and the smoke will con- 
ceal you for a few moments. I will go first from this hole, but 
I Avill be the last to move. Lieutenant Clayton Avill follovA^ 
me out, but he will lead the Avay to the avenue. Follow him ; 
keep cool — keep straight forward, and only turn AA'hen you 
turn to strike a foe. Are all ready 

“ Ay, sir, all ready was the reply. With the words, with 
his own steed behind him, Barsfield, on foot, led him forth, and 
was the first to emerge into the light. He was not instantly 
perceived by the assailants, such Avas the cloud of smoke be- 
tween them and the dwelling; but when, one after another, 
Avith a fearful rush, each trooper bounded forth, driving for- 
Avard with relentless spur to the avenue in front, then did 
Singleton, beerming conscious of their flight, give his order? 
for pursuit, 


203 


CAPRICES OF THE CONtTHCT. 

“Double quick step, riflemen ; burry on with you, and skirt 
the fence. Your rifles will then cover them as they fly, and 
J\rellichampe will answer for the rest. Quick step, men, or 
you lose the fire.” 

Udie partisans Avere prompt enough in obeying these orders, 
but there had been some miscalculation in the distance, or the 
speed of fear had not been taken into the estimate of th((S(* 
advantages, possessed by the enemy, for which Singleton be- 
lieved himself prepared. The tories were already in the avenue 
bcdbre the riflemen reached the skirts of the park. Barsfndd, 
bringing up the rear, his huge form erect, his hand waving de- 
fiance, was the only individual at whom a shot was obtained. 
At him several bullets were sped ; but there is a something ii; 
the daring inditference of boldness which not unfrequently 
deranges the truest aim of an enemy. The tory' was unlnirt ; 
yet some of the rifles pointed at his back were held by the 
best marksmen of the lower country. 

But a new enemy sprang up in the pathway of the tory, and 
tlie sabre of the impetuous Mellicliampe once more clashed 
with that of his enemy. 

“Ha, ha!” cried Mellicliampe, “you w’ere long in coming, 
but I have you now. You are mine at last I” 

There Avas a demoniac delight iii the expression of the 
youth’s countenance, as, with these Avords, he confronted his 
foe. 

“ Stand aside, boy !” was the hoarse reply of the tory, as, 
wheeling his horse to the opposite hand of the avenue, he 
seemed rather disposed to pass than to encounter the youth. 
IMellichampe regarded no other enemy, and the troop of Bars- 
field mingled pell-mell in the strife with the partisans, Avho, 
Avere scattered before them up the avenue. 

With the sidling movement of Barsfield, the steed of IVlelli- 
champe, under the impetuous dii’cction of his rider, Avas Avheeled 
directly across his path, and the tory saAv at a glance that the 
encounter could not be avoided. Preparing for it, therefore, 
with all his energies, he threw aside the weapon of his enemy, 
and the swords recoiled from each other in the fierce collision, 
as if with an instinct of their own. Again they bounded and 


204 


MELLICIIxlMPE. 


buckled together ; and tlien there was a momentary pause in 
the combat, as the weapons crossed in air, in which the eyes of 
the inveterate foes glared upon each other with the thirst ful 
expression of demoniac hate. Like lightning then, for a few 
moments, the opposing blades darted around each combatant’s 
head; then came the deadly thrust and the heavy blow — the 
ready guard, and the swift stroke in return. 

Though brave enough in common parlance, there was yet 
that in the face of Mellichampe from which the tory seemed 
to shrink. The youth had been roused by repeated wrongs, 
and maddened by continued disappointments, which defeated 
his promised hope of vengeance. The accumulated venom of 
a fierce and injured spirit shot forth from his eye, and gave a 
dreadful earnestness to every effort of his arm, so that the ine- 
quality of physical strength between himself and his enemy 
did not at first seem so evident. 

The consciousness of having wronged the youth, and the 
moral inferiority which, in all respects, he felt to him, neutral- 
ized in some degree the natural advantage which the tory pos- 
sessed of greater muscle, and the acquired advantage of great- 
er skill and experience. How else, indeed, could one so slender 
ns Mellichampe — his bones not yet hardened to manhood, and 
he yet in the gristle of youth — contend so long and so equally 
with a frame so huge as that of Barsfield ? How else, if the 
heart were not conscious of right in the one and of wrong in 
the other, could theTormer put aside the weighty blow of his 
enemy with so much ease, and respond to it with so much 
power ? Thrice, in the deadliest stroke, had he foiled the 
tory, and now he pressed on him in return. 

It is now for me, villain,” cried the youth, as he struck the 
rowel into his steed, and rose upon his stirrups a moment after, 
to give point with a downward stroke at the breast of bis ene- 
my, whose steed had sunk, under the sudden press of his 
rider’s curb, backward upon bis haunches — 

“ It is now my turn, villain, and my father’s blood clamors 
for that of his murderer. Have at your heart. Ha !” 

The stroke was descending, and was with difficulty parried 
by the sabre of the tory. It was put aside, however, at the 


CAPRICKS OF THE CONFTJOT 


205 

utmost stretch of Barsfiehl’s arm — liis hodv IxMiig writhe*! 
rouucl into an unnatural position for tliat. purpose. The danger 
was only delayed. In another moment he felt assured tliat tlie 
stroke of Mellichampe — a. backward stroke — must be re- 
peated, and that he could not recover his seat- in time to ward 
it aside ; but, ere the youth could effect his object — to which 
he had addressed his entire energies, conscious that he now 
had the tory at complete advantage — the forefeet of his horse 
struck upon the carcass of a slain soldier, which slipped froni 
under him, yet carrying him forward, till he stumbled irrecov- 
erably and came to his knees. 

The moment was lost ; and, in the next, Barsfield had re- 
covered his seat, from which the force of Mellichampe/s as- 
saults, and the efforts necessary for his own defence, had half 
uplifted him. It was' his turn now to press upon his foe. 
Wheeling his horse suddenly round, he dealt him a heavy blow 
upon the shoulder of his sword-arm, which precipitated the 
youth to the earth, while Avounding him severely. The tory 
would have paused to render his victoiy more complete ; hut, 
as he looked upon the avenue before him, he saw that he was 
isolated. Cutting their way, without pausing for any })articu- 
lar encounter such as had controlled the flight of their leader, 
his men had sped onward ; and, though fighting with the ])ar- 
tisans at every step, had yet succeeded in carrying the fight 
forward to the entrance. 

The tory captain saAv that he had no time for dela}'. Wither- 
spoon, who had been busily engaged, Avas now pressing toward 
him, closely folloAved by another; and, though casting a Avist- 
ful look upon his prostrate ene-my, as if he longed to nmk<' 
certain his victory, the safety of his own life depended njjon 
his haste, and Avas infinitely more important to him than even 
the death of so deadly an enemy as Mellicliampe. Even noAv 
it was doubtful Avhat success Avould attend Iiis endeavor to ])ass 
the scattered partisans avIio lay in Ins path ; and he felt that 
all his energies Avere required to meet the shock of Wither- 
spoon, Avlio Avas fast approaching. 

While thus he prepared himself, the shrill clamor of afresh 
trumpet broke sud lenly upon his sense, and brought him re* 


206 


MELLTOHAMPE. 


lief. It announced tlie coming of a new force, and tlie proba 
bility was that it was British. Of this Barsfield, in anothei 
moment, had no doubt, as be saw Witherspoon, no longer seek- 
ing the conflict, rush past him in the direction of the burning 
mansion. The woodman had beheld the steel caps and the 
blue uniforms of the approaching force, and at once recognised 
the formidable corps, two hundred strong, of the legionary 
Tarleton. Barsfield rode on to meet his superior, and explain 
the situation of affairs before him. Witherspoon, meanwhile, 
leaping from his horse, which he let go free, rushed to the spot 
where Mellichampe had fallen. 

“ Airnest ! Airnest, boy !” he cried, as he stooped dov/n 
to the insensible body ? “ Speak to me, Airnest — speak to me, 
it’s me, Jack — it’s Thumbscrew, Airnest. Only say some- 
thing — only a word — I don’t care what you says, Airnest; 
but say something. God ha' mercy! He don’t hear! — he 
can’t talk. Airnest ! Airnest !” 

A groan met his ears and half relieved him. 

“ Thank God, it 'taint so bad. He’s got life in him yet ; 
and, if I can only carry him out of the way of the horses, 
and let Miss Janet know where to find him — ” 

Thus speaking, he raised the insensible body in his arms, 
and hurried with him toward the ditch, over which he 
sought to pass. His aim was to carry the youth into the thick 
copse beyond, where he could place him out of sight of the 
approaching enemy. But he had overtasked his own strength, 
after the severe fatigue and fighting which he had under' 
gone, and the labor called for more time than the circum- 
stances of the field would allow. The advance of Tarleton 
was too rapid to permit of his performing the affectionate 
service which he contemplated for his friend ; andy before 
he reached the ditch, the swords of the legion were flash- 
ing before his eyes, as the troop wheeled round a bend in 
the avenue which- hitherto had concealed him from their 
sight. 

“ Gimini ! I must leave him, I must put you down, Air- 
nest ! I cant’t help it, boy ! I did the best !” 

He spoke to the insensible youth as if he could hear 


CAPKIUES OF THli CONFLICT. 


207 


and, with a groan that seemed to come from the bottom of his 
soul, lie laid the body down in the ditch, where it was partially 
concealed from sight in the hollow and by the tufts and hushes 
which grew along its margin. Then, with a grim look of de- 
spair cast behind him as he fled, he leaped across the ditch, 
passed hurriedly through the copse and bordering foliage, 
and soon gained the station at the bottom of the hill, which 
had been assigned by Singleton at the commencement of the 
fray as the place of general rendezvous. 


208 


MELLICJlAMl^E- 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE THREATENED SACRIFICE. 

Chafed with the excitement of battle, and .mortified with 
the humiliation of defeat, Barsfield dashed forward to meet 
with Tarleton, to whom he conveyed the particulars of the af- 
fray. It needed but few words to do this at such a moment 
— the scene was in progress even then before the eyes of 
the legionary. The wild shouts of the partisans, scattered 
along the fields, and flying from the greater force approach- 
ing them — the occasional sounds of the rifle — 'the Turid glare 
of the flames, ascending in gigantic columns from the burning 
mansion, sufiiciently informed the ready senses of a leader so 
intelligent and sagacious as the practised Tarleton. He was a 
man of deeds rather than of words, and a few brief, i^uick 
questions drew from Barsfield all that he sought to know. 

“ What number of rifles, Captain Barsfield, has Major Sin- 
gleton V 

“ Some thirty, sir, or more.” 

“ What other force 

“ Ten or twenty horse, wmich 'i^'e had first broken through, 
sir, on your approach.” 

“ And from which our approach saved you 

Barsfield bowed. Tarleton waved his hand, and gave his 
troop their orders with coolness and decision- In the next mo- 
ment he led them forward with a fleet paco down the avenue, 
toward the burning dwelling i\^nd the park. He thought to 
find his enemj^ scattered and unprepared, as he now and then 
beheld in the distance, by the light of the flames, an occasional 
figure darting by, seemingly in flight, and the shouts of the par- 
tisans rose here and there from opppsite quarters of the area.. 


THE THREATENED SACRIFICE. 


209 


Tlie sight of these figures aud the iusulting shouts stimulated 
liis advance, and aroused his natural appetite for strife. ’With 
liahitual impetuosity, he hurried forward in a quick trot, making 
for the point which most immediately promised him an encoun- 
ter with his foe. 

He found them much sooner than he had expected. His 
enemy was prepared for him. Singleton was apprized of the 
approach of Tarleton quite as soon as Barsfield in the avenue, 
and he now prepared to execute the orders of Marion, for which 
the present condition of things gave him a favorable opportu- 
nity. He threw his men without the park. The fences lay be- 
tween the two parties. One half of his force he immediately 
sent down the hill to prepare the horses, putting them in read- 
iness for instant flight. His riflemen, who had been too late 
to check the retreat of Barsfield, were nevertheless just in time 
on the outer edge of the park, and skirting one side of the 
avenue, with its thick copse interposing sufficiently to protect 
them from a charge of cavalry, to gall the advance of Tarle- 
ton. They received their orders, and stood prepared to exe- 
cute them. Covered by the trees, e?ich man stood in silence, 
prepared to single out his enemy, and immediately after scud 
off along the fences, and join his comrades at the foot of the 
hill. Cool and watchful, Singleton remained at hand to Avatch 
the progress of both parties. He himself had prepared to do 
a like duty with his men. He had thrown aside the sabre, and 
a favorite rifle in his hands was quite as deadly a weapon as 
in that of any other of his troop. The legion came bounding 
forward, and the signal for their hostile recej)tion came from 
the rifle of the partisan commander. It had its echoes — each 
an echo of death — and the advancing column of Tarleton in 
that narrow avenue, reeled and recoiled under the fatal dis- 
charge. A dozen troopers fell from their saddles with the fire, 
stiffening in the fast embrace of death, and scarce conscious 
of their Avounds. But in another instant the fierce voice of 
Tarleton, clamorous and shrill, rose like that of a trumpet 
above all other sounds — 

“ Scoundrels, forward ! Wherefore do ye pause ? Through 
the bush to the right — cliarge, rascals, ere f cleave ye down 


210 


mellichampe. 


to tlic earth! Charge the d d rebels — charge^ — and give 

no quarter !” 

The ditch was cleared — the obedient troopers, accustomed 
hitherto only to victory under the lead of Tarleton, went 
over the bank and scrambled through the copse with more 
daring than success. The overhanging branches ^v"ere hewn 
away in an instant — a path was cleared for the advance 
til rough the close foliage, and, like bold cavaliers, a score of 
the troopers made their way through the obstruction. But 
where was the enemy ? Where were they whose fatal rifles 
had dealt them so much loss'? They had melted away like 
so many shadows — they were gone. Fiercely the dragoons 
dealt idle blows upon the surrounding bushes, which might 
have been supposed to shelter a lurking rifleman, but their 
sabres clashed together and found no foe. The partisans had 
vanished from their sight, but they had not yet gone. While 
yet the dragoons gazed bewildered and in wonderment, the re- 
peated shot from the same select and deadly marksmen singled 
them out, one by one, from another sheltered clump of wood, 
not more than fifty yards in advance ; and the remaining few 
who had passed into the open ground and were still exposed, 
could hear the distinct commands of Singleton — 

“ Another round, men — one more. Each his man.” 

The partisan had managed admirably, but he was now com- 
pelled to fly. The advantage of ground was no longer with 
him. Tarleton, with his entire force, had now passed through 
the avenue, and had appeared in the open court in front. The 
necessity of rapid flight now became apparent to Singleton, 
and the wild lively notes of his trumpet were accordingly 
heard stirring the air at not more than rifle distance from the 
gathering troop of Tarleton. Bitterly aroused by this seeming 
audacity — an audacity to which Tarleton, waging a war 
hitherto of continual successes, had never been accustomed, 
his ire grew into fury — ^ 

“ What, men 1 shall these rebels carry it so V* he cried 
aloud. “ Advance, Captain Barsfield — advance to the right 
of the fence with twenty men, and stop not to mark your 


THE THREATENED SACRIFICE. 211 

steps Advance, sir, and charge forward. You should know 
the ground by this time. Away !” 

To another he cried — striking the neck of his steed impa- 
tiently with the broad side of his sabre- — 

“ Captain Kearney, to yon wood ! Sweep it, sir, with your 
sahres ; and meet me in the rear of the garden !” 

The officers thus commanded moved to the execution of tlieii 
cliarges with sufficient celerity. The commands and move 
ments of Major Singleton were much more cool and not less 
prompt. He hurried along by his scattered men, as tliey lay 
here and there, covered by this or that bush or tree. 

“ Carry off no bullets that you can spare them, men — fire 
as soon as they reach the garden, and, when your pieces are 
clear, take down the hill and mount.” 

Three minutes did not elapse before the rifles had each 
poured forth its treasured death ; and, without pausing to be- 
hold the effects of their discharge, each partisan, duly obe- 
dient, was on his way, leaping off from cover to cover through 
the thick woods to the hollow where their horses liad been 
fastened. 

The furious Tarleton meanwhile led the way through the 
garden, the palings of which w.ere torn away to give his cav- 
alry free passage. With a soldier's rage, and the impatience 
of one not often baffled, he hurried forward the pursuit, in a 
line tolerably direct, after the flying partisans. But Singleton 
was too good a soldier, and too familiar with the groufid, to 
keep his men in mass in a wild flight through woods be- 
coming denser at every step. When they had reached a knoll 
at some little distance beyond the place where his horses had 
been fastened, he addressed his troop as follows : — 

“ We must break here, my men. Each man will take his • 
own path, and we will all scatter as far apart as possible. 
Make your way, all of you, for the swamp, however ; where, 
in a couple of hours, you may all be safe. Lance Erampton, 
you will ride with me.” 

Each trooper knew the country, and, accustomed to individ 
ual enterprise and the duties of the scout, there Avas no 
hardship to the men of Marion in such a separation. On all 


212 


MELLTCIIAxMPE. 


Lands they glided off, and at a far freer pace tlian when 
lliey rode togetlierdn a body. A tboiisand tracks they found 
in the woods about them, in pursuing wbicb there was now no 
obstruction — no justling of brother horsemen pressing upon 
tlie same route. Singleton and his youthful companion dart- 
ed aw'ay at an easy pace into the woods, in which they 
had scarcely shrouded themselves before they heard the rush- 
ing and fierce cries of Tarleton’s dragoons. 

“Do you remember, Lance,” said Singleton to the boy — 
“ do you remember, the chase we had from the Oaks, when 
Proctor pursued us 

“Yes, sir — and a narrow chance it was when your horse 
tumbled. I thought they wmiild have caught and killed you 
then, sir; but I didn’t know anything of fighting in the 
woods then.” 

“ Keep cool, and there’s little danger any where,” responded 
Singleton. “ Men in a hurry are always in danger. To be safe, 
be steady. But — ha ! do you not hear them now 1 Some of 
them have got upon our track.” 

“ I do hear a noise, sir — there was a dry bush that cracked 
then.” 

“ And a voice — that was a shout. Let us stop for a moment 
and reload. A shot may be wanted.” 

Coolly dismounting, Singleton proceeded to charge hi? 
rifle, which had been slung across his shoulder. His com- 
panion did the same. While loading, the former felt a slight 
pain and stiffness in his left arm. 

“ I am hurt, Lance, I do believe. Look here at my shoul 
der.” 

“ There’s blood, sir — and the coat’s cut with a bullet. Th^ 
« bullet’s in your arm, sir.” 

“No — not now. It has been there, I believe, though the 
wound is slight. There, now — mount — we have no time to 
sse it now'.” 

“That’s true, sir, for I hear the horses; and, look nows ma- 
jor, there’s two of the dragoons coming through the bush 
and straight towmrd us.” 

“ Two only V’ said Singleton, again unslinging h‘s riLe 


THE THREATENED SACRTETCE. 


213 


The boy readily understood the movement, and proceeded to 
do likewise, but he was too late. The shot of Singleton was 
immediate, and the foremost trooper fell forward from his 
horse. His companion fled. 

“ Don’t ’light, Lance — keep on. There’s only one now, and 
he won’t trouble us. The other — poor devil! his horse was 
too fleet for his master’s safety. Away, sir.” 

It was time to speed. The report of the shot and the fall 
of the dragoon gave a direction to the whole force of the pur- 
suers, whose shouts and cries might now be heard ringing in 
all directions of the forest behind them. 

“ They can’t reach us, Lance. We shall round that bay in 
a few seconds, and they will be sure to boggle into it. On, 
boy, and waste no eyesight in looking behind you. We are 
safe. I only hope that all our boys are as much so. But I fear 
that we have lost some fine fellows. Poor Mellichampe ! but 
it is too late now. Push on — the bay is before us.” 

Thus speaking, guiding and encouraging the boy, the fear- 
less partisan kept on. In a few minutes they had rounded the 
thick bay, and were deeply sheltered in a dense Avood, well 
known at that period by a romantic title, which doubtless had 
its story. 

“My Lady’s Fancy. We are safe now, Lance, and a little 
rest will do no harm.” 

The partisan, as he spoke, drew up his horse, threw himself 
from his back, fastened him to a hanging branch, and, passing 
down to a hollow where a little brooklet ran trickling along 
with a gentle murmur, drank deeply of its sweet and quiet 
waters, Avhich he scooped up with a calabash that hung on a 
bough, waving in the breeze above. Then throAving himself 
down under the shadow of the tree, he lay as quietly as if 
there had been no danger tracking his footsteps, and no deadly 
enemy still prowling in the neighborhood and hungering for 
his blood. 

The chase was given over, and the lively tones of the bugle 
recalled the pursuers. The legionary colonel stood upon a 
hillock, awaiting the return of the men, who came in sloAvly 
and half exhausted from the profitless pursuit. He wiped 


214 


MKLLTCHAMPR. 


tlie dust and sweat from his brow, but a rigid and deep blue 
vein lay like a cord across bis forehead. A gloomy cloud 
bung about bis eyes, and yet bis lips, pale, and seemingly 
passionless, were parted with a smile. They quivered slightly, 
and the tips of bis white teeth rested upon the lower lip for 
a moment, as if to control bis speech, when be beheld the 
person of the tory captain among those approaching him. 

“ And now, what of this aflPaii*, Captain Barsfield ? We have 
lime now to speak of it,” was the salutation of Tarleton ; 
and be alighted from bis steed as he spoke, and the point 
of bis sabre was made to revolve quickly, while be lis- 
tened upon the up-curling peak of bis thick military boot. 
Barsfield briefly narrated the events which we have wit 
nessed, and, saving some little natural exaggeration of the 
numbers on the side of the partisans, with tolerable correct- 
ness. The narrative, as he listened, did not seem to diminish 
the disquiet of his hearer. 

“ But fifty men, you . say ? the entire force of the rebels 
but fifty men ! and your force, if I err not, thirty at the 
least. But fifty men !” 

“ There may have been ; indeed, sir, there must have been 
. — more; and — ” 

“ A bad business, sir; a very bad business. Captain Bars- 
field,” said the other interrupting him. “ The affair has not 
been rightly managed, though where the defect lay may not 
now be said. What force was it you encountered in tlie 
morning ?” 

“A squad of thirty, sir, and more. I had defeated tliem, 
and they would have been cut to pieces, but for the sudden 
appearance of the troop of Major Singleton, which you have 
just dispersed.” 

“ No more, sir; no more. Take your men, and examine the 
ground and the avenue. See to the wounded prisoners. Cap- 
tain Barsfield ; have them well secured, and ascertain the ex- 
tent of your own loss. There must be an Inquiry into this 
business quickly. Move, sir — we have no time to lose.” 

The blood mounted into the tory’s cheek as he listened to 
these orders ; the fire of intense satisfaction glared and gath- 


THE THHEATENKT) SACRIFICE. 


315 


erecl in his eye, and, fearful that his feeling would he seen 
by the piercing glance of Tarleton, he turned awa}’- instantly 
in the execution of his orders. A fierce hope of vengeance, 
yet to be satisfied, was at his heart. He. had not forgotten that 
liis mortal enemy lay wounded on that field. He knew that 
although wounded, Mellichampe was yet alive. The command 
to scour the scene of conflict was precisely the command which 
he most desired; affording him, as it did, an opportunity of 
making certain the stroke which even in the hurry of battle, he 
had considered incomplete. Afierce emotion of delight, under 
which he trembled, seized upon his frame as he heard the aom- 
mand; and, bowing with ill-concealed satisfaction to his supe- 
rior, he hurried away with all the rapidity of a newly-stimu- 
lated passion, not merely to the execution of his orders, but 
to the final consummation of his own bloody scheme of ven- 
geance — the death of that hated rival, in the pursuit of 
which he had been so often baffled when most sanguine of suc- 
cess. The knife was now in his hand, however, and the devoted 
victim lay before him. 


216 


MELLICHAMPE 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

SKETCHES OF THE STRIFE. 

I^ET US retrace our steps ; let us go back in our narrative, 
and review the feelings and the fortunes of other parties to oiir 
story, not less important in its details, and quite as dear in our 
regards. Let us seek the temporary dwelling of the Berkeley 
family, and contemplate the condition and the employment of 
its inmates during the progress of the severe strife of whicli 
we have given a partial history. Its terrors were not less 
imposing to them than they were to those who had been actors 
in the conflict. To the young maidens, indeed, it certainly 
was far more terrible than to the brave men, warmed with the 
provocation and reckless from the impulses of strife. And 
yet, how differently did the events of the day affect the two 
maidens — how forcibly did they bring out and illustrate their 
very different characters ! To the casual observer, there was 
very little change in the demeanor of Janet Berkeley, Slie 
seemed the same subdued, sad, yet enduring and uncomplain- 
ing creature, looking for affliction because she had been so 
often subjected to its pressure ; yet, from that very cause, 
looking for it without apprehension, and in all the strength of 
religious resignation. 

Not so with her more volatile companion. The terrors of 
the fight, so near at hand, so novel in its forms, and so fearful 
to one who never, till now, had associated it in her thonglit 
with any other features than those of old romance — where 
the gorgeousness and the glitter, the cheering music and the 
proud array, were contrived to conceal the danger, if not to 
salve the hurts — brought to her other and more paralyzing sen- 
sations. All her levity departed with the approach and pres- 


SKETCHES OF THE STKTFE. 


217 


euce of the reality, of which, hitherto, she liad but dreamed, 
and the images of which, seen through the medium of lier 
imagination and not her heart, had until now presented her 
with no other forms than those of loveliness or power. The 
Srst d_*ead sounds of battle, the first crash and commotion of 
the conflict, taught her other feelings ; and, with each reiter- 
ated shout or groan, her emotion increased to a passion of fear 
that became painful even to her companion — herself full of 
the warmest apprehensions for her lover’s safety, and laboring 
under a true sense of the growing and gathering miseries 
around her. But it is at such a moment that the true nature 
of the mind — the true strength of the heart — the spirit, and 
the soul, and the .affections, rise into impressive and control- 
ling action. It was then that the majesty of a devoted woman, 
conscious of all the danger, yet not unprepared to meet it with 
him to whom her heart was given, shone forth in the bearing 
of Janet Berkeley. 

The light, thoughtless heart of Rose Duncan, untutored and 
unimpressed as yet by any of the vicissitudes of life, had few 
moods but what were hurrying and of a transient nature. She 
was unprepared for any but passing impressions. Her fancy 
had been active always, and her heart, in consequence, had 
grown subordinate. Afiliction, the subduer, the modifier — 
she who checks passion in its tumults, and tempers to sedate- 
ness the warm feelings which would sometimes mount into 
madness — had brought her no sober counsels. Small but ac- 
cumulating cares, which benefit by their frequent warnings, 
had never taught her to meditate much or often upon the 
various sorrows and the many changes, as frequent in the 
moral atmosphere as in the natural, which belong to life. 
That grave tale-bearer IMme, whose legends are never want- 
ing in their moral to those who read, had taken no heed of 
her education. That stern strengthener and impelling mis- 
tress, Necessity, had never, in order to bring out its resources, 
subjected each feeling of her heart to bondage, putting a curb 
upon the capricious emotion and the buoyant fancy. Slie 
heard of care from books, which seldom describe it In its true 
features, but it was only to regard it as a something which is 

10 


218 


MELLICHAMPE. 


to give a zest to pleasure by soinetimes cbairging its aspect; 
as in conserves we employ a slight bitter, iu order to relieve 
pleasantly the cloying insipidity of tlieir sweet. Sbe bad 
never yet seen in Sorrow the twin-sister of Humanity, born 
with it at its birth, keeping due pace with it, though perhaps 
unseen, in its progress through the flowery places as v/?ii as 
through the tangled wilderness ; clinging to it, inseparably, 
through all its fortunes ; clouding, at times, its most pleasant 
sunshine with a look of reproof; chiding its sweetest anticipa- 
tions with the language of homily; and pressing it downward, 
at last, to the embrace of their common mother Earth, until 
even Hope takes its flight, yielding the struggle for the pres- 
ent, and possibly withholding its assurance from the future. 

Thus, utterly uneducated by the heart’s best tutors, the 
novel terrors now before her eyes left her entirely without 
support in reflection. She was convulsed with apprehension ; 
the fierce oaths of the hurrying troops grated with a new form 
of danger upon her fancy ; every wild shout smote painfully 
upon her senses; and the sharp shot, directed, as she now 
knew it to be, against the bosom of a feeling and a living man 
while teaching her properly to realize the truth, totally un- 
nerved and left her powerless. She shrank upon the floor in 
her terrors, as the dreadful din came to her ears, and crawled 
to the window, where her cousin sat in speechless apprehen- 
sion. There, like a frightened child, she sat clinging to the 
drapery of Janet, while continued sobs and momentary excla- 
mations betrayed her new consciousness of danger, and her own 
inadequacy of strength to contend with it. 

How different was the deportment of Janet ! How subdued 
her grief — how unobtrusive her emotions — how sustained her 
spirit — how governing her reason ! She shrunk not from the 
contemplation of that danger whose terrors her mind had long 
since been taught to contemplate at a distance. Drawing her 
chair beside a little window, which looked forth directly upon 
the scene of battle, and scarcely in perfect security from its 
random shot, she gazed upon the progress of events, aiid exhib- 
ited in comparison with Rose, who sat upon the floor and saw 
nothing, but little consciousness,. and certainly no fears, of its 


SKETrCIIES OF THE STOIFE. 


219 


awful terrors. Yet her emotions were not ‘less active, her feel- 
ings not less susceptible and warm, than those of her com- 
panion. It was, indeed, because her consciousness was so 
deep, her love so abiding, her fears so thick and overflowing, 
that she had no audible emotions. The waters of her heart 
were too far down for display; it is only in the shallows tliat 
the breakers leap up, and chafe, and murmur. They speak 
not for themselves, but for the overfull and heaving ocean that 
gathers and settles, gloomily and great, in the distance. The 
clamor of her cousin’s fear had spoken for hers; and yet how 
full of voice, how touching the language of silence, when we 
know that the full heart is running over. How thrilling is the 
brief, gasping, sudden exclamation, which utters all, because 
we feel that it has uttered nothing! 

She sat with her hands clasped ; her soul sad and sick, but 
strong; her eyes intently gazing, as if they would burst from 
their sockets, upon the wild scene of confusion going on around 
her. And when the strife began warmly in the first stage, 
and before the house was fired — when she knew nothing of 
the progress of events, and heard nothing but the sharp and 
frequent shot, without knowing what had been its effect ; when 
the shriek of agony reached her ears faintly from afar, and 
there came no word to her to say that the wounded victim was 
not the one, of all in that controversy, to whom her thought 
and her prayer were most entirely given — it was then that 
she felt the agony Avhich yet she did not speak. In her mind 
she strove to think a prayer for his success and for his safety, 
and sometimes the Avords of aspiration were muttered brokenly 
from her lips ; but the prayer died away in her heart, and the 
dreadful incidents of earth going on around her kept back her 
thoughts from God. 

A terrible cry of satisfaction was uttered by the partisans, 
as in the conflict they beheld one of the defenders of the 
house distinctly fall back from the Avindow at Avhich he had 
exposed himself. The rifle had been too quick and fatal for 
his escape. The sound smote upon the senses of Janet Avith a 
new fear; and Rose, in her childish terror, nearly dragged hei 
from the seat. 


220 


MKLLICII^MrK. 


“Father of mercies, spare liim. ! spare them all! Soften 
their hearts — let them not spill blood 1” was the involuntary 
prayer of Janet. “Rose, do not go on so; do not fear; you 
are not in danger, dear Rose : but keep on the floor; the shot 
can not reach you thVre.” 

“ But you, Janet — you are in danger at the window : corn- 
down, dear Janet, and sit with me. The bullets will be sure 
to hit you. Come down. I’m so afraid.” 

Pull me not down. Rose; there is no danger here, for the 
shot do not fly in this direction. They fly all toward the 
garden, where our people are, under the trees.” 

“Where? do you see them, Janet ?” cried Rose, half rising. 

“Yes; hush — there!” But a cry and a shot at that mo- 
ment frightened the other to her place upon the floor, and 
she sank down with renewed trepidation. 

“ I see them now, all of them : some stand behind the water- 
oaks ; and I see two crawling along under the bushes. God 
preserve them! Should Barsfield know they are there, he 
could kill them, for there are no trees between them and the 
house — nothing but the bushes. Oh God !” 

The exclamation startled Rose with a new terror. 

“ What, Janet ?” 

“ I see him ! Rash Mellichampe 1 I see him, and he is 
mounted. The tories must see him too. Why! oh, why will he 
expose himself! why does he not keep behind the trees! He 
stands — he does not move. Barsfield must soon see him now. 
Fly, fly, Ernest!” and, her emotion assuming the ascendency, 
she arose from her chair, and motioned with her hand, and 
cried with her voice, now feeble and husky from affright, as if 
he to whom it was addressed could hear it at such a distance. 

“He hears me — he moves away. Oh, dear Ernest ! he is 
now behind the trees. Thank God, he is safe !” and she sank 
again into her seat, and fondly believed, at that moment, that 
he had heard her warnings and complied with her entreaties. 
There was a pause in the conflict. Neither shot nor shout 
came to their senses. 

“Is it over, Janet ?” cried Rose. “Have they done fight* 
ing? I hear nothing. There is no danger now.” 


SKETCHES OF THE STRIFE. 


22 i 

“ Would it were over, Rose ; but I fear it is not. I see tlie 
men watching behind the trees. Some are riding away, and 
some are creeping still around the fence. It blinds me to 
look ; it maddens me to think, Rose, that he is there, exposed 
to the murderous aim of those merciless tories, in the danger 
which I may not keep him from, which I do not share with 
him. Pray, Rose — pray, dearest, for the safety of our men. 
Pray, for I can not. I can only look.” 

“ Nor I. But how can you look ? The very thought of it 
is too horrible.” 

“ The thought of it to me is more dreadful than the sight,” 
was the answer of Janet. “Months have gone by. Rose, since 
I first began to think of battle and of Mellichampe’s liourly 
danger ; and when I thought of it then, it was far more terrible 
than now, when I look upon it before me. But oh, dearest 
Rose, how awful is that silence ! There is no shouting; tliere 
are no cries of blood and death, and yet they are planning 
death. They are meditating how best to succeed in slauglHer- 
ing their fellow-creatures.” 

“Do you see them now, Janet?” 

“ Yes, there, behind the trees. Look now. Rose. There is 
now no danger, I think.” 

The more timid girl rose to survey the distant an-ay, whicli 
she did with all the eager curiosity of childhood. The bugle 
sounded. 

“ Ah, Rose, they are in council. See them under the great 
oak, yonder, to the left — there, close by the stunted cedar?” 

“I see, I see. How their swords glitter, Janet. How 
beautiful, how strange ! . And that trumpet, how shrilly sweet, 
how strong and wild its notes, seeming like the cry of some 
mighty bird as it rushes through the storm. Oh, Janet, what 
a beautiful thing is war !” 

“ So is death, sometimes. Beautiful, but terrible. Alas that 
man should seek to make crime lovely ! Alas that woman 
should so admife power and courage as to forget the cruelties 
in their frequent employ. God keep us! they are going to 
6ght again.” 

With a scream Rose sank again to the floor, grasping the 


222 


MELLICHAMPE. 


dress of lier companion, and clinging to it with all the trepida? 
tion of childhood. 

“ Ah ! they lift their rifles. I see three of them that kneel 
behind the trees, and they have their aim upon something, hut 
what I can not see. What is it they would shoot % They are 
pointed to the house, too. I see now : two of the tories are at 
)ne window. God help them, why do . they not hide them- 
selves V* 

“ Are they gone now, Janet V* asked Rose in the momentary 
silence of her companion. 

“ I know not ; I can not look again. Ha ! the shot ! the 
shot ! the rifles ! They are slain !” 

Tlie sharp, sudden sound of the rifles followed almost in- 
stantly the inquiry of Rose Duncan, and the eyes of Janet 
instantly turned, as under some fascination, toward the win- 
dow. The troopers were no longer to be seen. Shuddering 
as with convulsion, she turned from the window and sank 
down beside her more timid companion. But her heart was 
too full of anxiety to suffer her to remain long where she had 
fallen. The sounds again ceased, and she ventured to rise 
once more and look forth upon the prospect. She now saw the 
scene more distinctly. The partisans had somewhat changed 
their position, and were now nearer the cottage. Singleton 
stood beneath a tree, with several of his officers about liim. 
The quick eiye of Janet readily distinguished her lover among 
them. He stood erect, graceful, and firm as ever, and she for- 
got her fears, her sorrows ; he was unhurt. While she looked, 
they moved away from the spot, and she now beheld them 
making a circuit round the park so as to avoid unnecessary 
exposure to the tory bullets, and approaching the little cottage 
in which the family found shelter. 

“Heavens! Rose, they are coming here — the officers. 
What can they want? There may be some one hurt. Yet 
no, it does not look so.” 

“ Then the fighting is over, Janet.” • 

“No, no, I fear not, for I see the riflemen all around the 
house, and watching it closely from beneath the trees. But 
here they come, the officers, and he is among tliem. Go, Rose, 


SKETCHES OF THE STRIFE. 


223 


dearest, and send my father to meet them. I can not. I will 
rather sit here and wait until they are gone.” 

The partisans sought the house the better to carry on 
their deliberations. They obtained some refreshments from 
Mr. Berkeley, and then proceeded to confer on the subject of 
tlie leaguer. We have seen the result of their deliberations, 
in the gift which Janet had made to her lover of the bow and 
arrows. It will not need that we dwell longer upon the event. 
Let us proceed to others, in which she also had a share. 


224 


MKLLICIIAMPE, 


CHAPTER XXV 

THE COURAGE OP LOVC. 

Throughout the conflict, a close and deeply interested 
observer, Janet Berkeley had never once departed from her 
post of watch.* She had felt all the sickness — tlie dreadful 
sickness — of suspense. She suffered all the terrors of one 
anxious in the last degree about the result of the battle, yet 
perfectly conscious of its thousand uncertainties. Tlie wild 
and various cries of the warriors — now of triumph and now of 
defeat, or physical agony — went chillingly to her heart; yet, 
the sentinel of love, jealous of her watch, and solicitous of* the 
safety of that over which it was held, she kept her place, in 
spite of all the solicitations of Rose and of her equally appre- 
hensive father. She did not seem conscious of her own danger 
while she continued to think of that of Mellichampe ; and, so 
long as the battle lasted, could she think of anything else! 
She did not. 

We have seen the patriotic resolution with which she de- 
voted the family mansion to destruction. She had beheld the 
application of the torch — she had seen the arrow winged with 
flame smiting the sacred roof which had sheltered so many 
generations, and with that glorious spirit which so elevated 
the maidens of Carolina during the long struggle of the revc- 
lution — making them rather objects of national than of social 
contemplation — she had felt a triumphant glow of self-gratu* 
lation that it had been with her to contribute to a cause doubly 
sacred, as it involved the life of her country not less tlian that 
of her lover. With hands clasped and tearful eyes, she had 
prayed as fervently for tlie conflagration of the dwelling as, at 


THE COURAGE OF LOVE. 225 

another time and other more favorable auspices, she would 
have prayed and labored for its preservation and safety. 

With an intensity of feeling not surpassed by that of a 113^ 
one of the brave men commingling in the strife, she had be- 
held the progress of the flame. How her heart beat when, 
more remote from the smoky cloud which hung all around the 
dwelling, she had seen, sooner than the partisans, the impet- 
uous rush — mounted all, and with blazing weapons — of Bars- 
field and his party ! But when she heard the clash of sabres 
in front of the dwelling, and in the narrow avenue wliicli led 
to it, when she listened to the sounds of that conflict which she 
could no longer see, it was then that her spirit sickened most. 
Imagination — the feverish fancy — grew active and impatient. 
Crowding fears came gathering about her heart, 'which grew 
cold under their influence. Her head swam dizziljs until at 
length, in utter exhaustion, she sank from the seat at the 
window, and strove feebly, on bended knees, by the side of 
the trembling Rose, once more to pray. But she could not : 
the words refused to come to her lips; the thoughts of her 
mind were too wild, too foreign, and not to be coerced ; they 
were in the field of battle — striving in its strife — in the cruel 
strife of man with man. How could she bring her mind, thus 
employed, and at such a moment, with all its horrid and un- 
holy associations of crime and terror, even for the purposes of 
supplication, into the presence of her God ? She dared not. 

She started from her knees as she heard the tread of huny- 
ing feet around the dwelling. She reached the window in 
time to see that four of the partisans were employed in bearing 
one in their arms, who seemed dead or fatally wounded. 
They laid him down under the shelter of some trees beliind 
the house, arid the moment after she saw them hurrying back 
to the avenue. She tried to call to tliem, she songlit to know 
who was the wounded man ; but the words died awaj’^ in inar- 
ticulate sounds. She could not speak; and, in an instant, 
they were out of sight. Her agony became insnp])ortable. 
Who was the victim ? Her fears, lier inifigination, answ(‘recl. 
She watched her time, during tlie momentary inattention of 
her fatlier, and, without .declaring her intention to Rose, slie 

10 * 


22G 


MELTJCHAMPK. 


stole out of tlie apartment. She hurried from the house nn 
seen. She readied the tree under wliidi the dead body liad 
been laid. It was covered with a cloak, which was stained 
with blood, apparently still flowing from the bosom of the 
wounded man. She dared not lift the garment. Her hand 
was extended, but trembled feebly above it. But she heard 
approaching voices, and was nerved for the occasion. She 
liastily threw the cloak from the face, and once more she 
breathed freely : the features were unknown — happilj^ un- 
known. There Avas none to feel the loss while bending over 
him ; and she rejoiced, with a sad pleasure, that the loss was 
not hers. 

She hurried back with a new life to the apartment, and had 
scarcely reached it when she heard the sound of a trumpet borne 
upon the winds from a direction opposite, and beyond, that in 
which the combatants had been engaged. A new enemy was 
at hand. The shrill and inspiriting notes approached rapid Ij", 
swelling more and more loudly until the avenue was gained, 
and then there was a pause — a dreadful silence — among 
those who had lately been so fearfully at . strife. In a few 
.moments after, and she saw Major Singleton, ^'ush toward her, 
followed by several of his men. She heard his orders dis- 
tinctly, and they brought a new terror to her soul. 

“Forward, John Davis, with a dozen rifles, and bring oft* 
Mellichampe^ that bugle is Tarleton’s, and the whole of the 
mounted men of the legion are upon him. Give the advance 
a close fire, and that will relieve him ; then fall back behind 
those bays — reload, and renev/ your fire. That done, take to 
the branch, and stand prepared to mount. Away !” 

They obeyed him promptly, stole up behind the copse, and 
received the advance of Tarleton with a fire as of one man. 
We have seen the result: the enemy leaped the ditch, broke 
through the copse, and found no foe. But the purposed relief 
of Mellichampe came too late to bring off the brave youth for 
whose succor it had been intended. The personal effort of 
Witherspoon had failed also. That faithful attendant had 
barely crossed the ditch when the riflemen came forward ' 
Having no rifle, he c'^uld not contribute to their strength ; and, 


THE COUKA.GK OP LOVE. 




with a word, pointing out to them a proper cover, he hurried 
forward with all despatch to the place of rendezvous. But, 
though he strove to avoid being seen by any of the household 
while passing, as he was compelled to do, the little cottage in 
which the Berkeley family were collected, he could not escape 
the quick, apprehensive eye of Janet. She saw him approach- 
ing, she saw that he was seeking safety in flight, and, what 
was of more appalling concern to her, knowing his attachment 
to Mellichampe, she saw that he fled alone. How quick, how 
far-darting, is the eye of apprehension ! She could read the 
expression of his countenance as- he approached, even as a 
book. She saw the question answered in his face which her 
lips had yet not asked. How slowly did he approach : she 
rose — her hand was lifted and waved to him; but, when he 
looked toward her, he increased his speed. She cried aloud 
to him in her desperation ; — 

“ Come to me, John Witherspoon — come to me, if you have 
pity — but for one moment!” 

Did he hear her ? He did not answer; but, as if he guess- 
ed her meaning from her action, he flung up his arms in air, as 
if to say, “Despair, despair! — all’s lo«t !” — for so her heart 
interpreted his action — and in another instant he was out of 
sight. The riflemen followed soon behind him, stealing from 
cover to cover in the neighboring foliage, and had scarcidj^ 
been hidden from her gaze before the fierce troopers of Tarle- 
ton came bounding after them. Vainly did her ej'es strain in 
the examination of the forms of those who fled ; she saw not 
the one of all — he whom alone she sought for ; and the fear 
of his fate grew into absolute certainty when the bine uniforms 
of the terrible legion came out on every hand before her. She 
saw them hurrying fast and far after the flying partisans, and 
every blast of the trumpet, as it died away in the distance, 
brought a new pang into her mind, until the agony became in- 
supportable. She determined to suffer no longer under the 
gnawing suspense which clamored at her heart. 

“ I will know^the worst: I cannot bear this agony, and 
live !” 

Thus murmuring, she started from her place by the window 


228 


MELLICHAMPE. 


ard turned to the feeble Rose, who still lay upon the floor at 
her feet, in a degree of mental and physical prostration full as 
great, even now, as at the first -moment in which the battle 
joined. 

“ Rose, dear Rose, will you go with me V* 

“Where, go where, Janet? You frighten me !” 

“ There is no danger now. Go with me. Rose, dear cousin, 
I'et me not go alone.” 

“ But tell me where, dearest Janet ? Where would you 
go ? and you look so strange and wild ; put up your hair, 
Janet.” 

“No — no — no matter. It is no time. I must go, I must 
seek him. Rose, and I would not go alone. Come with me, 
dearest, my sister, come with me. Believe me, there can 
be no danger — only to the avenue.” 

“What, where they’ve been fighting, and in all that horrid 
blood ?” cried the other, in a voice that was a shriek. 

“Even there — where there is blood — where — oh, God be 
with me! where there must be death. I go to seek for it. 
Rose, though, I would not find it if I could,” solemnly, and 
with clasped and uplifted hands, responded the devoted maiden. 

“ Never, neveis” cried the other. 

“ Rose, dear Rose, will you let me go alone? I beg you. 
Rose, on my knees, there is no danger now.” 

“ There is danger, Janet, and they will murder us. I heard 
them crying and shouting only a minute ago ; and, there, 
there is that dreadful trumpet now, whose sounds go like a 
sword-stab to my heart. I can not, Janet — I dare not : tliere 
is danger.” 

“ None : on my life, Rose, there is no danger now. Our 
people have retreated, and the dragoons have all gone off in 
pursuit. They are now a great way off, and we can get back 
to the house long before they return. Do not fear, Rose, but 
go with me, only for a little while.” 

“ I can not, I will not go among the dead bodies. You would 
not have me go there, Janet ; you surely will*iiot go yourself?” 

“Ay, there, Rose, even there, among the dying and the 
dead, if it must be so. I may serve the one, I have no cause 


THE COURAGE OF LOVE. 


229 


to fear the other. It may he — it must be — dreadful to look 
upon, hut my heart holds it to he a duty that I should go there 
now, and, if not a duty, it is a desire that I can not control. 
I must go, Rose, and I would not go alone.” 

“ I will not; forgive me, Janet, hut I should go mad to see 
the blood and the dead bodies. I can not go.” 

“ God be with me ! I must go alone and, as she replied 
thus, giving her solemn determination, her eyes were uplifted 
in a holy appeal to the Almighty Being, whose presence, 
in the absence of all others, she had invoked for her adventure. 

“ Hold me not. Rose, I am resolved. I must go, though T 
go alone. Yet, I should not. Rose, if you would but reflect. 
There are no noises now, there are no alarms ; the troops have 
gone ; there is no sort of danger.” 

She looked appealingly to her companion while she spoke, 
but her eye met no answering sympathies in that of Rose 
Duncan. The terrors of the latter were unabated. There 
was a vital difference of character between the two. The 
elastic spirit of the more lively maiden was one merely of 
the physical and external world. She was the summer-bird, 
a thing of glitter and of sunshine. She could not live in 
the stormy weather ; she could not bide the turbulence of 
strife. It was at such a time that the spirit of Janet Berkeley 
came forth in strength, if not in buoyance ; even as the eagle, 
who takes that season to soar forth from his mountain dwelling, 
when the black masses of the tempest growl and gather most 
gloomily around it. 

“ You will not, Rose t” 

“ No, do not ask me, Janet.” 

The firm and determined maiden, without another word, 
simply raised her finger, and pointed to the adjoining apart- 
ment, where her father was. The uplifted finger then pressed 
her lips for a moment, and in the next she was gone from sight. 
Rose did not believe that she would go forth after her refusal 
to accompany her, and she now earnestly called her back. 
But she was already out of hearing: she had gone forth to 
the field of blood and battle ; and, strong in love, and fearless 
in absorbing and concentrative affections, she had gone alone 


230 


MKTJJCHAMl’F.. 


CHAPTER XXVI. ‘ 

THE WOUNDED LOVER, 

Love is the vital principle of religion — it is religion. It 
is the devotion that fears not death — which is not won hj life 
— which can not be seduced from duty — which is patient aiiii 
uncomplaining amid privation. Its existence becomes merged 
in that of the object which it worships, and its first gift is tlie 
sacrifice of — self. There is no love if the heart will not make 
this sacrifice, and the heart never truly loves until this sacrifice 
be made. Self is that life which we surrender Avhen we gain 
the happiness of the blessed. Seldom made in this life, it is 
yet the only condition upon which we are secure of the future. 
Ah ! happy the spirit which is soonest ready for the sacrifice. 
To such a spirit. Heaven and Immortality are one ! 

The destiny of such a creature as Janet Berkele}’ miglit 
even now be written. She is secure. There can be no chanjre 
in such a character. Time, and fortune, sickness, the defeat 
of hope, and the consciousness of approacliing death, could 
never alter one lofty mood, one self-devoting impulse of her 
soul. Surely, though she seeks the field Of teia*Or unaccom- 
panied by human form, she will not necessarily be alone, ddie 
God whose worship calls only for love, will not be heedless of 
the safety of her who toils for the beloved one. He is with 
her. 

Resolute as she was to seek the field of strife, and fearless 
as her conduct approved her spirit, she was yet sufficiently 
maiden in her reserve, to desire as ipnch as possible, to conceal 
from stranger eyes the object of her adventure. With a cau- 
tious footstep, therefore, she stole from cover to cover, until she 
reached the artificial bank, clustering and crowded with shnib.s 


THE WOUNDED LOVER. 


'2:m 

and vines, which supported tlie trees on one side of the spa- 
cious avenue. With a- trembling hand she parted tlie slirub- 
berv before her, and her eyes took in for an instant tlie held 
of battle, and then, immediately after, shutting out its objects, 
closed, as if with a moral comprehension of their own. She 
could not be mistaken in the dreadful objects in her sight. 
The awful testimonies of the desperate hght were strewed 
around her. Her uplifted foot, in the very first step which slie 
had been about to take from the bank, hung suspended over 
the lifeless body of one of its victims. She turned snddenlv 
and sickeningly away. She strove, but she could not pass into 
the avenue at that point, and she receded through the thicket, 
and made her way round to another quarter, in which she hoped 
to find an unobstructed passage. There was but little time for 
delay, and with this thought a new resolution brought strength 
to her frame. Again her hand parted the copse, making a pas- 
sage for her person. This time she dared not look. She did 
not again permit herself either to think or to look, hut re- 
solutely leaping across the ditch, she stood for a moment, 
awed and trembling, but still firm, in the presence of the dead. 

She w^as motionless for several seconds; but her mind neu- 
tralized, in its noble strength of purpose, the otherwise truly 
feminine feebleness of Her person. She was about to move 
forward in her determined task ; but when she strove to lift 
her foot, it seemed half-fastened to the ground. She looked 
down, and her shoe was covered with clotted blood. She 
stood in a fast-freezing puddle of what, but an hour before, 
liad been warm life and feeling. But she did not now give 
heed to the obstruction ; she Avas unconscious of this thought. 
Her mind was elsewhere, and her eyes sought for another 
object. The anxiety of her heart was too intense to make her 
heedful of those minor influences, which at another time would 
have shocked the sensibilities and overthrown all the strength 
of her sex. She hurried forward, and her eyes were busy all 
around her. The whole length of the avenue seemed marked 
by the suffering victims, or those who had ceased to sufter. 
Death had been busy in this quarter, and tory and rebel had 
equally paid tribute to the destroyer. A deep moaning, feebly 


232 


MELLICHAMPE. 


uttered but full of pain, came to her ears. It guided her steps. 
She followed the one sound only. A wounded man lay half 
in the ditch, to which he had crawled as if to be out of the 
way of the horses. His head and shoulders were on the 
bank, the rest of his body was concealed. A frightful gash 
disfigured his face, and the blood-smeared features were yet 
pale with the sickness of death. He stretched out st, feeble 
arm as she approached. He muttered a single word — 

“Water.” 

At another time, she would have run with the speed of 
charity to bring him the blessed draught for which he prayed; 
but now she gave him no heed. There was nothing in his 
face which spoke to her heart; and that moaning sound yet 
reached her ears at intervals. She hurried onward, and the 
pleading wretch. sank back and peyished, even as he prayed. 
She heard his last gasping groan, but it had no effect upon her 
feeling. Her mind was sensible only of the one sound which 
had so far guided her footsteps. It seemed, through the me- 
dium of some strange instinct, at once to convey itself to her 
soul. She reached the bend in the avenue whence it came. 
On the edge of the ditch, half-buried in the water and ;the 
long grass, lay the wounded man. A single glance informed 
her. She could not mistake the uniform. 

“ Mellichampe !*' she cried, in a thrilling voice of terror, as 
with one desperate bound she rushed forward to the spot, and, 
heedless of the thick blood which had dyed the grass all 
around where he lay, sank on her knees beside him, while her 
enfolding arms were wrapped about his bosom. 

“ Ernest — dear Ernest J speak to me ; tell me that you live ; 
say that you are mine still — that I do not lose you. Look at 
me, Ernest — speak to me — speak to me only once.” 

He was in her arms — he breathed — he felt; but he spoke 
not, and did not seem conscious. Her heart was strong, though 
suffering; and her feeble strength of person, under its prompt 
ings, was employed with an energy of which she had never 
before conjectured one half the possession, to drag him forth 
from the vines and .brambles which lay thick around his 
face — the concealing cover in which he had been studiously 


THK WOUNDED LOVKR. 


233 


placed by t)ie trusty Witherspoon the rnoment before his own 
flight. From this cover she now strove to lift the form of her 
lover; and, though Avounding her delicate fingers at every 
effort with the thorns, the devoted Janet felt nothing of their 
injuries as she labored witli this object. With great effort she 
succeeded in drawing him upon the bank, and his head now 
rested upon her arms. A writhing of his person, a choking 
half-suppressed groan, attested the returning consciousness, 
witi) tlie increased pain following this movement, and mixed 
moans and menaces fell incoherently from his lips. Even 
these signs, though signs of pain to him, and holding forth no 
encouragement of hope to her, were yet more grateful than the 
unconsciousness in which he lay before. She spoke to him — 
the words bursting forth in an intensity of natural eloquence 
from her tongue, which could scarce have failed to arouse him, 
even from the stupor of overcoming death itself. 

“ Speak to me, Mellichampe : dear Ernest, speak to me. 
tell me that you live — that you are not hurt to death. It is 
Janet, your own Janet, that calls upon you. Look up and 
see ; look up and hear me. It is my arms, dear Ernest, tliat 
hold you now ; the bloody men are all gone.” 

And his dim eyes did unclose, and they did look up with 
a sweet mournfulness of expression, vacant and wild, that 
grew into a smile, almost of pleasure, when they met the 
earnest, commiserating glance of hers. They closed again 
almost instantly, however; but he murmured her name at the 
moment. 

“ Janet — you?” 

“Your own, in life and death, Ernest — ever your own.” 

And she clung to him with a tenacious hold, at that instant, 
as if determined that death should take no separate victim. 
He was again conscious, and spoke, though feebly’; — 

“ I fear me it is death, Janet. I feel it; this pain can not 
long be endured, and my limbs are useless.” 

“Speak not thus, Ernest; I know it is not so. Stay — 
move not. I will lift you to the house — I will — ” 

“You!” and he smiled feebly and fondly, as he arrested 
the idle speech. 


234 


MELLICHAMPE. 


“God of heaven! have mercy! what shall I do I may 
not help him and the exclamation hurst spontaneously 
from her lips, as she found, after repeated efforts, that her fee- 
ble arms were inadequate to the task even of lifting him from 
his present painful position to a drier spot upon the hank. 
In her bewilderment and anguish, she could only call his 
name in a bitter fondness. . He heard her complaints, and 
seemed to comprehend their occasion. His lips parted, and, 
though with pain and a sensible effort, he strove to speak to 
her. The words were faint and inaudible. She bent down 
her ears, and at length distinguished what he said. He but 
named to her the faithful negi’o who had once before stood so 
opportunely between him and his enemy, and had nearly suf- 
fered a dreadful and ignominious death in consequence of his 
fidelity. 

“ Scip — Scipio — he will come — Scip.” 

His eyes closed with the effort, but her face brightened as 
she listened to the words. She immediately laid his. head 
tenderly upon the bank, pressed the pale, unconscious forehead 
with her lips, and, bounding away through the thicket, hurritul 
with all the fleetness of a iiealous and devoted spirit to the 
completion of her task.. 


7iOVK’S BARRIER. 


235 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

love’s barrier. 

She Avas not long in finding the faithful Scipio. He sprang 
with all the alacrity of a genuine zeal in obedience to lier 
commands. When he heard from her faltering lips the melan- 
choly occasion Avhich called for his attendance, his own emo- 
tion was unrestrainable, though he affected to doubt the cer- 
tainty of her information. 

“ Who — Avho da hurt, Missis ? You no say da Mass Arnest ? 
I no blieb it. Mass Arnest, he too strong, and he too (juick 
for let dem dam tory hurt a bone in he body. He somebody 
else, missis. You no ’casion for scare; he somebody else hab 
knock on he head : no Mass Arnest, I berry sartin. Ihit I go 
long Avid you all de same, dough I no guine tink da IMass 
Arnest git hurt. He hab much hurt, I turn soger mysef. I 
run way from ole maussa, and take de bush after dem tory. J 
SAA^ay to God nothing guine ’top me I once in de AA'Oods. llui, 
come, young missis, show me de place Avhay de person hurt, 
dough I knoAV berry Avell taint Mass Arnest.” 

Denying her assertion, yet fearing at every step that he 
took — and, indeed, only denying that he might the more 
readily impose upon himself with the unbelief A\diich he ex 
pressed, but Avith AAdiich he Avas yet not satisfied — the sturdy 
Scipio folloAved his young mistress toAvard the avenue. They 
had not reached the little copse, hoAvever, by AA'hich it Avas 
girdled, before they heard the rush of horses, and the shrill 
blast of the bugle. 

“’Top in dis bush, young missis; squat doAvn here undei 
dis persimmon, whay day can’t see you.” 


236 


MELLICHAMPE. 


“No, Scipio, let us go forward. I think we can get to the 
avenue before they come up, and I would have you lift him 
into the bushes out of the way of the horsemen, before they 
have passed by. Do not fear, Scipio ; we shall have time, 
but you must go forward quickly.” 

The black looked into her face^with astonishment, as well 
he might. Her words were unbroken, and her tones quick 
and unaffected, equable, even musical; while his own, accus- 
tomed as he had been all his life to utter and complete subor- 
dination, were tremulous with timidity and fear. 

“Gor-a-mity, Miss Janet, you no scare? You no frighten, 
and you only young gal 1 Scip member when you been only 
so high, and here you tall — you 'tan up traight — you look 
all round— you no trouble, dough you hear de horn blow and 
de sogers coming. Wha’ for you no scare like Scipio ?” 

She could not smile at that moment, as .at another she could 
scarcely have refrained from doing; but her eye was turned 
upon the half-unnerved negro, and her taper finger rested on 
his sable wrist, as she said in tones which strengthened him, 
as he felt they came from one who was herself supernaturally 
strengthened — 

“ Fear nothing, but come on quickly. I need all your 
strength, Scipio ; and, if you will mind what I say to you, 
there will be no danger. Come on.” 

He opposed nothing farther to her progress, but followed in 
silence. They had reached an outer fence, the rails of which 
had been let down in order to the free passage of the cavalry 
before, when the increasing clamor of the approaching detach- 
ment under Barsfield again impelled Scipio to other sugges- 
tions of caution to his yputhful mistress. But she heeded him 
not, and continued her progress. Nor did he shrink. He 
could perish for her as readily as for Mellichampe ; and, to do 
the faithful slave all justice, his exhortations were prompted 
not so much by his own danger or hers, as by a natural sense 
of the delicacy of tliat position in which she might involve '■ 
herself, under that strong and passionate fervor of devoted 
leve which blinded her to all feeling of danger, and placed : 
her infintely beyond the fear of death. Other fears she had*i 


LOVE’S BARRIER. 


237 


not. Her maiden innocence had never yet dreamed of a 
wrong to that purity of soul and person, of which her whole life 
might well have been considered the embodied representative. 

But the forbearance of the negro, and his ready compliance 
hitherto, all disappeared when, on reaching the copse, he be- 
held the bright sabres flashing in his eyes immediately in the 
courtyard, as, rounding the yet blazing fabric, the trooper.s of 
Barsfield were even then making with all speed toward the 
avenue. He caught the wrist of his mistress, and pointed out 
the advancing enemy. She saw at a glance that, in another 
moment, they would make their appearance in the avenue 
quite as soon as herself. But a few' paces divided her from 
Mellichampe ; and, as she hesitated whether to pause or pro- 
ceed, she trembled now, for the first time in her movement. 
In that moment of doubt, the more ready physical energy ojf* 
the negro obtained the ascendency. With something like fear 
he drew her to a part of the copse which was thicker than the 
rest, and here she partially crouched from sight, he taking a 
place humbly enough immediately behind her. What w^ere 
her feelings then, in that position — what her fears ! She bore 
them not long. The anxiety and the suspense were infinitely 
beyond all estimation of the danger in her mind ; and, with 
fearless hands, after a few moments of dreadful pause and 
apprehension, she divided the crowding bushes from before 
her, and looked down into the ditch which separated her from 
the avenue. 

At that moment, leading his squad and moving rapidly at 
their head, Barsfield rode into the enclosure. Instinctively, as 
she beheld his huge form and fiercely-excited, harsh features, 
her hands sunk down at her side, and the slender hrajiches 
wdiich she had opened in the copse before her, with theli 
crowding foliage, resumed in part their old position, and wmuhi 
most completely have concealed her; but when, in the next 
instant, she beheld the fierce tory ride directly to the spot 
where Mellichampe lay, when she saw him rein up his steed 
and leap with onward haste to the ground, when her eye 
ceanned the intense malignity and mingled exultation and 
hatred of his glance, and she saw that his bloody sabre was 


238 


MKLLTCHAMPE. 


even then uplifted — she had no further fears — she had no 
furtlier tlioughts of herself. She tore the branches away from 
before her, and, in defiance of all the efforts -of the faithful 
Scipio to restrain her, she leaped forward directly into the 
path of the tory, and in the face of his uplifted weapon. 

Her appearance was in the last degree opportune. Another 
moment might have ended all her cares for her lover. Bars 
field was standing above him, and Mellichampe had exhibited 
just life enough to give the tory an excuse sufficient to drive 
the sword which he held into the bosom of that enemy whom, 
of all the world, he was most desirous to destroy. The medi- 
tated blow was almost descending, and the feeble youth stim- 
ulated by the presence of his foe, was vainly struggling to rise 
from the earth, which was all discolored with his blood. His 
dim eyes were opening in momentary flashes, while his sinew- 
less arm was feebly striving to lift the sabre, which he had 
still retained tenaciously in his grasp, in opposition to that of 
Barsfield. The instinct rather than the reason of love pre- 
vailed. Indeed, the instinct of love is woman’s best reason. 
With a shriek that rose more shrilly upon the air than the 
bugle of the . enemy, she threw herself under the weapon — she 
lay prostrate upon the extended and fainting form of her lover 
— she clasped his head with her arms, and her bosom formed 
the sweet and all-powerful barrier Avhich, in that perilous 
moment, protected his. The weapon of the tory was arrested. 
He had heard her cry — he had seen the movement — and he 
did not, he could not then, strike. 

“ Save him, spare him, Barsfield ! — he is dying — you have 
already slain him ! Strike no other blow ; have mercy, I pray 
you — if not upon him, have mercy upon me. I liave never 
wronged you — I will not — let us go free. Why will you 
hate us so — why — why?” 

“Fear not. Miss Berkeley — ^you mistake my purpose: 1 
mean not to destroy him. Leave him noyv — let one of my 
men attend you to the house; and Mr. Mellichampe shall be 
taken care of.” 

“1 will not leave him,” she exclaimed ; “I dare not tru:t 
you, Barsfield — T can take care of him myself.” 


love’s barriee. 


28 f) 

The fierce hrow of the tory hlackened as this reproachful 
Bpeecli met liis ears. 

“ What ! not trust me, Miss Berkeley ?” 

“ Why shoukl I ? Did I not behold you, even now, about 
to strike his unguarded bosom 

“ He strove to fight — he offered resistance,” was the sortie 
what hasty reply of the tory. 

“He strove to fight! — he offered resistance! — oh, shame, 
Captain Barsfield — shame to manhood — that you should 
speak such language ! What resistance could he offer ? how 
could he fight, and the blood that could only have given him 
strength for such a conflict soaking up the earth about him ? 
If that blood were now in his heart, Mr. Barsfield, you would 
not now speak thus, nor would I have occasion, sir, to plead 
for his life at any hands, and, least of all, at yours.” 

She had raised herself from the body, over Avhich she still 
continued to bend, under the indignation of her spirit at the 
unmanly speech of the tory. Her eyes flashed forth a fire as 
she spoke, bieath which his own grew humbled and ashamed. 
His muscles quivered with rage and vexation, and his only 
resort for relief was to that natural suggestion of the lowly 
mind which seeks to conceal or fortify one base action by the 
commission of another. 

“Take her away, Beacham,” he said to one of the troopers; 
“carry her to the house— ^tenderly, Beacham — tenderly ; hurt, 
he not. Be careful, as you value my favor.” 

“Touch me not,” she cried aloud, “touch me not: put no 
hand upon me. This is my home. Captain Barsfield — T am 
here of right, while you are but the guest of our hosj)itality 
Do not suffer these men to lay hands upon me.” 

“ But you are here in danger. Miss Berkeley.” 

“Only from you, sir — only from you and yours. I am in 
no danger, sir, from him — none — none. I will cling to him 
for safety to the last, though he hear m^e not — though he never 
hear me again. He is mine, sir and I am his ; but you knew 
this before. He is mine — you shall not tear me from my 
husband.” 


240 


MELLICHAMPE. 


“ Husband !” cried Barsfield, in unmitigated surprise and 
unconcealed vexation. 

“Yes, husband,, before God, if not in the eye jof man ! Liv- 
ing or dead, Ernest, I am still yours — yours only. I swear it 
by this unconscious form — I swear it by all that is good and 
holy — all that can hallow an innocent love, and make sacred 
and strong so^solemn and so dear a pledge ! You can not now 
separate us — you dare not!” 

“You know not. Miss Berkeley, how much I can dare in the 
performance of my duty.” 

“ This is no duty of yours — I need none of your guardian- 
ship.” 

“ Ay, Miss Berkeley, you do not, perhaps, but he does. He 
is my prisoner, under charge of a heavy crime — of treason te 
his sovereign, and of being a spy upon my camp.” 

“What! he — Mellichampe ! Oh, false, false — foolish and 
false !” was her almost fierce exclamation. 

“ True as gospel. Miss Berkeley, as I shall prove to his con- 
viction, if not yours. But this is trifling, surely. Beacham, 
remove the lady ; treat her tenderly, but remove her from the 
body of the prisoner: we must secure him at all, hazards-— 
living or dead.” 

The rugged soldier, in obedience to these commands, ap- 
proached the maiden, who now ch.ug more firmly than ever to 
the half conscious form of her lover. Her arms were wound 
about his neck, and, with convulsive shrieks at intervals, she 
spoke alternately to Barsfield and her lover. In the mean- 
time, beholding the approach of the soldier who had been 
instructed to bear her away, the faithful Scipio, though entirely 
unarmed, did not hesitate at once to leap forward to her assist- 
ance. He made his way between her and the soldier Beacham, 
and, though his arms hung without movement at his side, there 
was yet enough in his manner to show to the tory that he 
meditated all the resistance of which, under the circumstances, 
he could be considered capable. His teeth were set firmly ; 
his eyes sought those of the soldier, and were there fixed ; and 
his head rested upon one shoulder with an air of dogged deter* 


love’s barriek. 


241 


mination Avhicb, even before he spoke, conveyed all the elo- 
quence of his subsequent words. 

“ Say de wud, missis — only say de wud, and I hammer dia 
poor buckrah till he hah noting leff but de white ob de eye. 
He hab sword for stick, and Scip only hab he hand and teet’; 
but I no ’fraid ob urn ; only you say de wud — dat’s all !” 

But poor Scipio, as was natural enough at such a moment, 
in the presence of his mistress, and his blood mounting high 
at seeing the condition of Ernest Mellichampe, had grievousl 7 
miscalculated his own strength. He had scarcely spoken 
when a stroke from the back of a sabre across the head brought 
him to the ground, like a stunned ox, and taught Janet how 
little commiseration she was to expect from the fierce man 
who stood before her, wielding, at that instant, her entire des- 
tiny. The soldier advanced, though with some evident reluc- 
tance, and he laid his hand upon her. She started, on the 
instant, and rose immediately to her feet. 

“If you are resolved upon violence toward me. Captain 
Barsfield, I will spare myself, as much as possible, the pain 
of suffering it. You have, sir, all the shame of having com- 
manded it. I know that you have the strength to tear me 
away from him ; you are wise, perhaps, as you seem only to 
employ it when the difference is so manifest. But I will not 
be separated from him, though you declare him your prisoner : 
I will be a prisoner also; I will cling to him wherever you 
may decree that he shall be carried ; for know, sir, that I trust 
you not. The man who will employ violence to a woman 
v/ould murder his sleeping enemy !” 

“ Remove her to the house, Beacham,” was all that the tory 
said ; but his words were uttered with teeth closely clinched 
together, and his whole frame seemed to quiver with indigna- 
tion. At that moment the sound of Tarleton’s returning bugle 
smote suddenly upon the ears of all ; and the quick sense of 
Janet immediately saw, in the features of Barsfield, that the 
intelligence was not pleasing to his mind. He hurried his 
commands for the removal of Mellichampe’s body, and was now 
doubly anxious to convey her to the house. Without a defi- 

'll 


242 


MKLI>1CHAMJ>K. 


iiite motive for refusing now to do that to which, but a moment 
befbre, she had consented, she sprang again to the pei*son of 
her lover, again threw her arms about him, and refused to be 
separated. While thus situated, the tones of another voice 
were heard immediately behind the group. The deep, sub- 
dued, but stern accents of Tarleton himself were not to be 
mistaken; and Barsfield started in obvious agitation, as he 
hoard the question which first announced to him the presence 
of his superior. 


TAJir.ETON IN TIME. 


243 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

TARLETON IN TIME. 

The group, at that moment in the avenue, formed a striking 
picture. The voice of Tarletqjp seemed to have the effect of 
paralyzing and fixing to his place each of the parties. Janet, 
on bended knee, with her person half stretched over the insen- 
sible body of her lover, her face turned and her hand uplifted 
to the legionary colonel, looked, at the same moment, relieved 
and apprehensive. She felt that the presence of Tarleton was 
a restraint upon the vindictive personal hostility of Barsfield ; 
but did she not also know that the name of 4he legionary was 
synonymous in Carolina with everything that was bloody and 
revengeful ? She hoped and trembled, yet she was better 
pleased that the destinies of her lover should rest with the 
latter than the former. Tarleton could have no individual 
hatred to Mellichampe ; she well conceived the viperous and 
unforgiving hate which rankled against him In ilie bosom of 
the tory. 

The quiet inquiry, the even and subdued tones, of Tar- 
leton, had the effect of a like paralysis upon the limbs of 
Barsfield. His mood was rebuked — his violent pi-oceedings 
at once arrested, as he heard them; yet they wefe words of 
simple inquiry. 

“ What does all this mean, Captain Barsfield ? why is this 
lady here ?” 

The tory explained, or sought to explain, but he performed 
the task imperfectly. 

“ A wounded enemy — a prisoner, sir. I would* have con- 
veyed him where he could procure tendence, but Miss Berkeley 
resisted.’ 


244 


MELLICHAMPE. 


The maiden rose. She approached Tarleton, and said tc 
him, in low, but still audible tones, 

“Because I would not trust him. He would have killed 
him — he would have murdered him with his bloody sword, if 
I had not come between.” 

“ But who is he, young lady, what is the youth in whom 
you take such interest'?” 

Her lips quivered, and a faint flush spread itself over her 
cheeks, but she did not reply. 

“ Who is the prisoner, Captain Barsfield ?” 

“ A rebel, sir — one Mellichampe.” 

“Son of Max Mellichampe?” demanded Tarleton, inter- 
rupting him. ' 

“ The same, sir ; as malignant a rebel as his father; and 
one not only liable to be dealt with as such, but one whom I 
would secure for trial as a spy.” 

At these words she spoke. The accusation against her lover 
aroused her. Her eye flashed indignant fires upon the tory 
as she spoke feaajessly in reply. 

“ It is false, sir — a wilful falsehood, believe me. Ernest 
Mellichampe was no spy; he could not be. This man con- 
ceives his enemy’s character from his own. Mellichampe is 
incapable, sir, of so base an employment ; and Captain Bars- 
field knows him sufficiently well to know' it. Ernest did but 
come to the house to see us, as he was accustomed to come ; 
and it so happened that Captain Barsfield, w4th his troop, 
came that ve\y day also. My father always extended to Er 
nest Mellichampe the same hospitality which he extended to 
Captain Barsfield ; and so, sir, you see that Ernest Avas our 
visiter, our guest, like Captain Barsfield, and one of them 
could no more be a spy than the other. • Captain' Barsfield 
knov/s all this; and, if he did not hate Ernest, I ishould not 
have to tell it you. But T tell you the truth, sif, as I am a 
w'oman : Ernest Avas no spy, and the charge against him is 
false and sinful.” 

She paiised, breathless and agitated. Tarleton smiled 
faintly as he heard her through, and liis eyes rested with 
a gentle and mos*- uiiAvonted expression upon the glowing 


TARLETON IN TIME. 245 

face of the fair ’pleader. Her eye shrunk from, while her 
whole frame trembled beneath, his gaze. 

“ But why is he here, my good young lady ? why, if he is 
our friend, why is he here inquired Tarleton, in the gentlest 
language. 

“ I said not that, sir; I said not that he was a loyalist; 
R.rnest Mellichampe, sir, is one of Marion’s men.” 

“ Ha !” was the quick exclamation of Tarleton, and his brow 
was furrowed with a heavy frown as he uttered it. 

“ But not a spy — oh no, sir, not a spy ! — an open, avowed, 
honorable enemy, but no spy. He fought against this man, sir 

— this man Barsfield — who hates him, sir, and came here 
only, just now, sir — I saw it myself — and would have killed 
Ernest with his sword, sir, and he senseless, if I had not come 
between him and the weapon.” 

“ Is this so. Captain Barsfield ?” inquired Tarleton, gravely 

“ The rebel’s weapon was uplifted. Colonel Tarleton, and he 
opposed me when I sought to make him my prisoner.” 

“Oh! false — false, sir — and foolish as it is false!” was 
her reply ; “ for how could he fight, sir, when he was so hurt, 
and lying almost senseless on the grass 

“ He could oflEbr but little resistance, indeed. Captain Bars- 
field !” remarked TarletOiii, sternly and coolly; “and this 
reminds me that he will the more speedily need the assist- 
ance of our surgeon. Here, Decker — Wilson — Broome — 
go one of you and request Mr. Haddows to prepare himself 
for a wounded man — sabre-cut, head and shoulder — away! 

— and you — a score of you, lift the body and bear it to the 
house. Tenderly, men — tenderly : if you move so roughly 
again, Corporal Wilson, I’ll cleave you to the chine with my 
sabre. Ha ! he shows his teeth again ! — a fierce rebel, doubt- 
less, young lady, and a troublesome one, too, though you speak 
so earnestly in his behalf.” 

The latter remark of Tarleton was elicited by the feverish 
resistance which the partly-aroused Mellichampe now offered 
to his own removal. The soldiers had sought to wrest his 
gabre from his grasp, and this again, with the pain of the 
movement, had provoked his consciousness. He strugglsd 


MELLTCriAMPR. 


desperately for an instant, gnaslied his teeth, threw his eyes 
upon the group Avith an air of defiance even in their vacancy, 
then closed them again, as he fainted away in a deathlike 
sickness in the arms which now uplifted him. 

Janet Avould have clung still to her lover as they bore him 
toward the dAvelling, but Tarleton interposed. He approached 
her with a smile of gentleness, Avhich Avas ahvays beautiful 
and imposing Avhen it made its appearance upon his habitually 
sombre features. 

“ Come, Miss Berkeley, let us go forAvard together. You 
will not fear to take the arm of one whom you doubtless consid- 
er in the character of an enemy — one, probably, of the very 
worst sort. Your rebel there, in Avhom you have taken ‘Such 
a SAveet interest, has no doubt taught you to believe me so : 
and you have readily believed all that he has taught you. I 
see how matters stand betAveen you, nay, blush not, you have 
nothing to blush for. You have only done your duty — the 
duty of a Avoman, always a more delicate, often a more holy, 
and sometimes a far more arduous duty than any of those Avhich 
are particularly the performance of man. I admire you for 
Avhat you have done, and you Avill regard me as a friend hei*e- 
aftef, though I am at Avar noAV Avith some of those Avhom you 
love most dearly. This matters nothing Avith me : nor am I 
always the stern monster Avhich I appear to so many. 1 am, 
they say, fond of blood-spilling, and I fear me that much of 
Avhat they say is true ; But Bannister Tarleton was not always 
what he noAv appears. Some of his boy feelings have worked 
in your favor ; and, so long as they last — and Heaven grant 
that they may last for ever — I Avill admire your virtues, and 
freely die to preserve and promote them. Go now and attend 
upon this youth : and, hear me, young lady, persuade him back 
to his true allegiance. You will do him as good a service by 
doing that, as you have done him now. He Avill be Avell at- 
tended by my own surgeon, and shall want for nothing; but 
he must remain a prisoner. The charges of Captain Barsfield 
must be examined into, but he shall have justice.” 

“Oh, sir, do not believe those charges — do not beliewe 
that man. He is a bad man, who personally hates Ernest, 


TAliLK'I'ON IN TIMK. 247 

and will do all lie can to destroy liiin, as lie destroyed liifl 
fatlier.” 

“ His father ! Yes, yes, I remember. Max Mellicliampe, 
Dis plantation was called — ” 

Kaddipali.” 

“ I see — I see,’ responded Tarleton, musingly', and bis eyes 
were on the ground ; while the sabre which he had carried in 
liis hand, still in its sheath, came heavily to the earth with 
a clatter that made the maiden start. A few moments’ pause 
ensued, when Tarleton proceeded : — 

•‘Fear nothing for the safety of the youth. He shall be 
t'-‘ed impartially and treated honorably, though we must now • 
Ireep him a prisoner, and Barsfield must have his keeping.” 

*• Oh, sir, not Barsfield — anybody else.” 

“ It can not be,” was the response ; “ but there is no danger, 

I shall say but a few words to Barsfield, and Mr. Mellicliampe 
will be much safer in his custody than in that of any other 
Take my word that it will be so. You have some prejudices, 

I perceive, against Barsfield, which do him injustice. You 
will discover, in the end, that you have wronged him.” 

“ Never, sir, never. You know him not. Colonel Tarleton, 
you know him not.” 

“Perhaps not, my dear young lady ; but I know that Mr. 
Mellicliampe will be safer after I have given my orders. All 
I request of you is to be patient. Encourage the prisoner; 
tell him to fear nothing; and fear nothing yourself.” 

She hesitated : she would have urged something further in 
objecting to Barsfield as the keeper of her lover; but a sudden 
change came over the countenance of the legionary, even as 
an unlooked-for cloud enlarges from a scarce perceptible speck, 
and obscures the hitherto untroubled heavens. His figure 
suddenly grew^ erect, and his air was coldly polite, as he 
checked her in the half-uttered suggestion. 

“ No more. Miss Berkeley, I have determined. The arrange- 
ments most proper for all parties shall be made, and all justice 
shall be done the prisoner. Have no doubts ; rely on me, I 
pray you, and be calm ; be confident in the assurances I give 
you. For once, believe that Bannister Tarleton can be hu 


248 


MELtJCHAMPE. 


mane ; that tenderness and justice may both be found at his 
hands. Go now to your dwelling. You have duties there; 
and oblige me, if you please, by saying to your father that, if 
agreeable to him, I will take dinner with him to-day.” 

He kissed her hand as he was about to leave her, with a 
grave, manly gallantry, that seemed to take the privilege as a 
matter of course; and she did not resist him. Murmuring her 
acknowledgments, she hurried away to the dwelling, and was 
soon out of sight. Tarleton stood for a few moments watcliing 
her progress, with a painful sort of pleasure evident upon his 
pale countenance, as if some old and sacred memories, sud- 
denly aroused from a long slumber, were busy stirring at his 
heart. 


THE HALF-BREED AND THE TORY. 




CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE HALF-BREED AND THE TORY. 

Tarleton, however, whatever may have been his feelings or 
his thoughts, gave but little time to their present indulgence. 
As soon as Janet Berkeley was out of sight, he again sought 
out Barsfield, whom he found in no very excellent humor. 
The tory was mortified on many accounts. He was irritated 
at the escape of Mellichampe, a second time, from the fate 
which he had prepared for him, and which at one moment he 
had considered certain. He was annoyed at the sudden ap- 
pearance of his superior, and that superior Tarleton, just when 
his controversies with a woman placed him in an attitude so 
humiliating to a man and a soldier. His brow was clouded, 
therefore, as these thoughts filled his mind, and the sco'wl had 
not left his features when Tarleton again made his appearance. 
The fierce legionary was a man of promptitude, quick decision, 
and few words: — 

“ So, Captain Barsfield, this prisoner of yours is the son of 
Max Mellichampe !” 

“The same, sir; a malignant I had thought quite too noto- 
rious to have escaped your recollection.” 

“ It had not ; though, at the moment when I first heard it, I 
was confounding one name with another in my memory.” 

“ I thought it strange, sir.” 

“You must have done so,” was the cool reply of Tarleton ; 
“for the fine estate and former possessions of Mellichampe, 
now yours through our sovereign’s favor, are too closely at hand 
not to have kept the old proprietor in recollection. But our 
speech is now of the son : what of him. Captain Barsfield?” 

There was a good deal in this speech to annoy the tory; 

li* 


25C 


MELLICIJAMI’E. 


but he strove successfully to preserve his composure as he 
replied to the latter part of it. 

“ He, sir, is not less malignant, not less hostile to our cause 
and sovereign, than his father. He is an exceedingly active 
officer among the men of Marion; and, like his father, en- 
dowed with many of the qualities which would make him 
troublesome as an enemy. He is braye, and possessed of con- 
siderable skill; quite too much not to render it highly advan- 
tageous to us to have him a prisoner, and liable to certain 
penalties as a criminal. It was my surprise, Colonel Tarle- 
ton — ” and a little hesitation here, in the words and manner 
of the tory, seemed to denote his own apprehensions of en- 
croaching upon delicate ground quite too far — “it was my 
surprise, sir, that, knowing his name and character, you should 
liave proceeded toward him with so much tenderness.” 

The legionary did not seem to feel the force of the rebuke 
which this language conveyed. His thoughts were elsewhere, 
evidently, as he replied, with an inquiring exclamation : — 

“ Eh ?” 

“You knew him, sir — a rebel — a spy; for such I asserted 
and can prove him to be ; yet you spared him.” 

“ I did,” said Tarleton ; “you wonder that I did so. Does 
your surprise come from the belief that I did him or myself 
injustice ? To what do you ascribe my forbearance ? or would 
you rather have had me truss him up to a tree, because he 
merited such a doom, or sabre him upon the ground, in order 
to preserve my consistency?” 

The tory looked astounded, as well he might. There was 
a strange tone of irony in the language of Tarleton, arid the 
words themselves had a signification quite foreign to the 
wonted habit of the latter. He knew not how to construe the 
object or the precise nature of the question. The whole tem- 
per of the fierce legionary seemed to have undergo a change, 
and was now a mystery to Barsfield, as it had been a wonder 
to the men around them. There was a sarcastic smile on the 
lips of the speaker, accompanying his words, which warned the 
tory to be heedful of tin? sort of reply to which he should give 
Titterance. He paused, herefore, for a. few moments, in ordei 


THE IIALF-BKEED AND THE TORY. 


251 


SO to digest his answer as to guard it from every ohjectionahle 
expression ; yet he spoke with sufficient promptitude to avoid 
the appearance of premeditating what he said. 

“ Surely, Colonel Tarleton, the rebel who resists should die 
in liis resistance — ” 

“But when wounded. Barsfield — when wounded and at 
your feet” — was the abrupt interruption of Tarleton, wlio cer- 
tainly did not diminish the surprise of Barsfield wliile thus ma- 
king a suggestion of mercy to the conqueror. The tory could 
not forbear a sarcasm : with a smile, therefore, he proceeded : — 

“ And yet. Colonel Tarleton, it has seldom been tlie case 
that you have left to his majesty’s enemies, even wlien you 
liave overthrown them, a second opportunity of lifting arms 
against him.” 

The bitter smile passed from the lips of the legionary, and 
his eye rested sternly upon the face of the tory. The sarcasm 
was evidently felt, and, for a few moments, there was in 'J’arlc- 
ton’s bosom something of that fierce fire which at one period 
would have replied to the sharp word with the sharper swurd, 
and to the idle sneer with a busy weapon. But the sternness 
of his brow, a moment after, became subdued to mere serious- 
ness, as he replied : — 

“ It is true. Captain Barsfield, my sabre has perhaj)S been 
sufficiently unsparing. I have been a man of blood ; and 
heretofore, I have thought, with sufficient propriety. 1 have 
deemed it my duty to leave my king as few enemies as possi- 
ble, and I have not often paused to consider of the mode by 
which to get rid of them ; but — ” 

lie did not conclude the sentence. Ilis face was turned 
away from the listener. Thought seemed to gather, like a 
cloud, upon his mind ; and a gloomy and dark hue obscured 
his otherwise pale features. The tory regarded him with 
increased surprise as he again addressed him; he could no 
longer conceal his astonishment at the change in the mood 
and habits of the speaker. 

“ May I ask,”" he continued, “ what has wrought the altera- 
tion which I can not but see now in your deportment. Colonel 
Tarleton V 


252 


MELLICHAMPE. 


“ Is it not enoiigli,” was the quick response of the legionary, 
“ that Cornwallis has grown merciful of late 

" It has been of late that he has become so,” said Barsfiehl 
with'a smile; “only since the battle of Gum Swamp, may we 
reckon V* 

“ He, at least, requires that I shall be so,” said Tarleton, 
calmly, “ though the indulgence of a different temper he still 
appears to keep in reserve for himself. He would monopoli/e 
the pleasure of the punishment, and perhaps the odium of it 
also. That, at least, I do not envy him.” 

“ And in that respect your own mood seems to have under- 
gone a change which could not have been produced by any 
command of his V* 

Barsfield was venturing upon dangerous ground in this 
remark ; but he presumed thus freely as he listened to the 
tacit censure which Tarleton had expressed in reference to the 
conduct of his superior. 

“ It has. Captain Barsfield, and the proof of it is to be found 
in the proceedings of this day. Under your representations I 
should at another time, with the full sanction' of Cornwallis, 
have strung up this rebel Mellichampe to the nearest tree, 
though but a few moments of life were left him by the doubt- 
ful mercies of your sabre or mine. I have not done so ; and 
my own mood is accountable for the change, rather than the 
orders of my superior. The truth is, I am sick of blood after 
the strife is over ; and I relieve myself of the duties of the 
executioner by the alteration of my feelings in this respect. 
Mellichampe wijl perhaps complain of my mercy. He must 
remain your prisoner, to be carefully kept by you, for trial in 
Charleston, as soon as his wounds will permit of his removal 
to the city. An executiop is wanted there, for example, in 
that unruly city; and this youth, coming of good family, and 
an active insurgent, is well chosen as the proper victim. I am 
instructed to secure another for this purpose, and my pursuit 
now is partly for this object. Two such subjects as Walton 
and Mellichampe carted to an ignominious death through the 
streets of Charleston, will have the proper effect upon these 
insolent citizens, who growl where they dare not bite, and 


THE IIALF-BRKKD AND THE TORY. 253 

Bueer at the authority which yet tramples them into the dust. 
You must keep this youtli safely for this purpose, Captain 
Barsfield j I shall look to you that he escape not, and that 
every attendance and all care be given him, so that he may 
as soon as possible prepare for his formal trial, and, as I Aink 
for his final execution. My own surgeon shall remain with 
him, the better to facilitate these ends, which, as you value 
your own loyalty, you will do your utmost to promote.” 

“Am I to remain here, then, Colonel Taileton? Shall 1 
not proceed to Sinkler’s Meadow, agreeably to the original 
plan, and afterward establish myself in post at Kaddipah 
“No! you must establish yourself here. The position is 
safer and better suited to our purposes than Kaddipah. Sur- 
round yourself with stockades, and summon the surrounding 
inhabitants. The probability is, that you are too late for the 
gathering at Sinkler’s Meadow. I fear me that Marion is 
there now. You should have crossed the river yesterdaj^ ; tlie 
delay is perhaps as fatal in its consequences as it was unad- 
vised and injudicious. But it is too late now to think upon. 
To-morrow I will move to Sinkler’s Meadow, if I do not first 
find Marion in the Swamp.” 

The conference was interrupted at this moment by the ap- 
proach of Blonay. His features suddenly caught the eye of 
the legionary, who called him foiwvard. The half-breed w ith 
his ancient habit, stood leaning against a neighboring tree, 
seeming not to observe anything, yet observing all th*ngs ; 
and, with a skill which might not readily.be augured from hie 
dull, inexpressive ey^e and visage, searching closely into the 
bosoms of those whom he surveyed, through the medium of 
those occasional expressions of countenance, which usually run 
along with feeling and indicate its presence. 

“ Ah 1 you are the scout,” said Tarleton. “ Come forward 
I Would speak with you.” 

The half-breed stood before him. * 

“ And you promise that you can guide me directly to tL* 
camp of the rebel Marion 
“ Yes, colonel, I can.” 

“You have seen it yourself?” 


254 


MPXfJCIIAMrE. 


“ I have, colonel.” 

“Unseen by an}’^ of the rebel force?” 

“ Ye»T colonel.” 

“ Can you guide us there, too, undiscovered ?” 

“ Adrat it — yes — if the scouts a’n’t out. When I went the 
scouts were all in, since there was no alarm, and Marion was 
guine upoiran expedition.” 

“ What expedition ?” 

“Well, I don’t know, colonel — somewhere to the north, 1 
reckon — down about Waccamaw.” 

“And suppose his scouts are out now — will they see us — 
can .we not make our way undiscovered?” 

“ ’Taint so easy, colonel ; there’s no better scouts in natur 
than the ‘ swamp fox’ keeps. They will dodge all day long 
in one thicket from the best ten men of the legion.” 

“ Is there no way of misleading the scouts ?” 

“ None, colonel, that I knows. If you could send out a 
strong party of the horse in a different direction, as if you was 
trying to get round them, you might trick the old fox into 
believing it; but that’s not so easy to do. He’s mighty shy, 
and a’n’t to be caught with chaff.” 

“Nor will I try any such experiment. ,Hark’ee, fellow; if 
I find that you deceive me, I shall not stop a moment to give 
your throat the surety of a strong cord. Your counsels to 
break my force, to be cut up when apart, are those of one who 
is drawing both right and left, and argues but little respect for 
my common sense. But I will trust you so far as you promise. 
You shall guide me to the hole of the fox, and L Avill do the 
rest. Guide me faithfully, and stick close to your promise, 
and I will reward you; betray me, deceive me, or even look 
doubtfully in our progress, and, so sure as I value the great 
trust in my hands, your doom is written. Away now, and be 
ready with the dawn.” 

The scout bowed and retired. The moment that his back 
had been turned upon the speaker, Tarleton motioned two sol 
diers, who stood at a little distance, and who kept their eyes 
ever watchfully upon Blonay. They turned away at the sig 
ual, and followed the scout at a respectful distance*, hut oim 


THK HALF-BRKED AND THE TORY. 


255 


not too groat to render tlie escape of the suspected person at 
all easy. Every precaution was taken to prevent the scout 
from noticing this si;rveillance ; but the half-oblique eye which 
he cast over his shoulder at intervals upon the two, must have 
taught any one at all familiar with the character of the half- 
breed, that he was not unconscious of the close attention thus 
bestowed upon him. He walked away unconcernedly, hov/ 
ever, and it was not long before, upon the edge of the fores': 
he had gained a favorite tree, against the sunny side of which 
he leaned himself quietly, as if all the cares and even the con- 
sciousness of existence had long since departed from his mind. 

It was in this spot, an hour after, that he was sought out by 
Barsfield. The tory captain had some cause of displeasure 
with the scout, who had evaded his expressed wish to^ain the 
clew to the retreat of Marion. He had other causes of dis- 
pleasure, which the dialogue between them subsequently un- 
folded. 

“ Where did you meet with Colonel Tarleton to-day, Mr. 
Blonay ? You had no knowledge of his approach V’ 

“None, cappin — I heard his trumpet a little way off, Avhen 
I was making a roundabout for the swamp thicket, and he 
came upon me with a few dragoons afore 1 seed him.” 

“ It is strange, Mr. Blonay, that a good scout, such as you 
are, should be so easily found when not desiring it. Are you 
sure that you tried to keep out of his way V 

“ No, cappin — there was no reason for me to try, for I saw 
first that they were friends and not rebels : and so I didn’t 
push to hide, as I might have done, easy enough.” 

“And by what means did Colonel Tarleton discover that 
you could lead him to the camp of Marion, unless you vstudi- 
ously furnished him with your intelligence?” 

“ I did tell him, cappin, when he axed me. He axed me if 
I know(id, and I said I did, jist the same as I said to you ; and 
he then axed me to show him, and I said I could.” 

“But why, when I asked you, did you deny your ability to 
show me the way ? Was it because you looked for better pay 
at the hands of Tarleton ?” 

“No, cappin : but you didn’t ax me to show you — you only 


25t> 


MELLICHAMPE. 


axed me to describe it, and that I couldn’t do. I can go ov^jr 
tlie ground, cappin, jist like a dog ; but I can’t tell the name 
of the tree that I goes by, or tliis^ busli, or that branch, and I 
ha’n’t any name for the thicket I creeps through. I knows 
them all when I sees them, and I can’t miss them any more 
than the good hound when he’s once upon trail ; but, if you 
was to hang me, I couldn’t say it to you in talking, so that 
you could find it out for yourself.” 

Blonay was right in a portion of his statement, but his cor- 
rectness Avas only partial. He could not, indeed, haA^e de- 
scribed his course ; but he had been really averse to unfolding 
it to Barsfield, and he had, Avith the vieAV to a greater reAvard, 
thrown himself in the way of Tarleton, of Avhose approach he 
had been apprized. He was true in all respects, to the simple 
and selSsh principle upon which his education had been 
grounded by his miserable mother. Barsfield had no farther 
objection to urge on the subject. He was entirely deceived 
by the manner of the scout. But there was yet another topic 
of interest between them, and to this he called his attention. 

“ You have not yet been successful with this boy ? — he lives 
yet—” 

“ Yes, but you have him now, and he can’t help himself. 
He is under your knife.” 

“ Ay !” exclaimed the tory, with an expression of counte- 
nance the most awfully stern, and with a tone of concentrated 
bitterness, “ ay ! but I am as far ofif, farther off, indeed, th^n 
ever. My hands are tied ; he is intrusted to my charge in 
particular, and my own fidelity is interested in preserving 
him.” 

“Eh?” was the simple and interrogative monosyllable Avith 
which the scout replied to what was too nice a subtil ty in 
morals to be easily resolvable by a mind so unconventional as 
his own. Barsfield saw the difficulty, and tried to explain. 

“ I can not violate a trust which is confided to me. I must 
preserve and protect, and eA^en fight against his enemies, so 
long as he remains in my custody.” 

“ He is your enemy ?” said Blonay, still wholly uninfluenced 
by the remark of Barsfield. 


THE HALF BRKKP AND THE TORY. 


257 


‘Yes, lie is still my enemy.” 

“ And you liis 
Yes.” 

“He is aneath your knife?” 

“ Yes, entirely.” 

The savage simply replied by taking his knife from its 
sheath and drawing its back across his own neck, while his 
countenance expressed all the fierce emotions of one engaged 
in the commission of a murder. The face of Brfrsfield took no 
small portion of the same fierce expression : catching the hand 
of* the speaker firmly in his own, he replied — 

“Ay, and no stroke would give me more pleasure than that. 
It would be life to me — his death — and why may it not be 
done ? It may be done ! Blonay, we will speak again pf this; 
but be silent now, keep close, and tell me where I may look 
for you to-night ?” 

“ There !” and he pointed to a little swamp or bay, in which 
he had slept before. It lay at the distance of a mile, more or 
less, from the camp, which had been already formed in the 
park, and near the yet consuming mansion. 

“There — I keep in the bay at night; for, though it taint 
got no cypresses, sich as I used to love down upon the Ashley, 
and about Dorchester, yet it’s a close place, and the tupolas 
and gums is mighty thick. You’ll find me there any time 
afore cockcrow. You have oii^ to blow in your hands three 
times — so — ” producing a singular and shrill whistle at the 
same time, by an application of his mouth to an aperture left 
between his otherwise closed palms, “ only blow so three times, 
and I’ll be with you.” 

The tory captain tried to produce the desired sounds, in the 
suggested manner, which he at length succeeded in doing. 
Satisfied, therefore, Avith the arrangement, he left his accom- 
plice to the contemplation of his own lonelineEa, and hurried 
away to his duties in the camp. 


258 


M KLLK IIAMPK. 


CHAPTER ZXX. 

THE WOLF IN NEW COLORS. 

Meanwhile the hurts of Mellichampe had all been caiefully 
* attended to. Tarleton, so far, had kept his pledged word to 
the maiden. He was removed to a chamber in the house which 
gave temporary shelter to the family, and the surgeon of the 
legionary colonel had himself attended to his injuries. They 
were found to be rather exhausting than dangerous. A slight 
sabre-stroke upon his head had stunned him for the time, but 
afforded no matter for very serious consideration. The severest 
wound was the cut over the left shoulder, which had bled pro- 
fusely ; but even this required little more than cose attendance 
and occasional dressing. A good nurse was more important 
than a skilful surgeon, and no idle and feeble scruples of the 
inferior mind stood in the way to prevent J anet Berkeley from 
devoting herself to the performance of this duty to her be- 
trothed. 

The intelligence of Mellichampe’s true situation was con- 
veyed by Tarleton himself to Mr. Berkeley, in the presence of 
his daughter. It seemed intended to, and did, reassure the 
maiden, whose warm interest in the captive was sufficiently 
obvious to all; as her tearful and deep apprehensions on his 
account, and for his safety, had been entirely beyond her 
power of concealment. 

Tarleton dined that day with the Berkeley family. His man- 
ners were grave, but gentle — somewhat reserved, perhaps, l)ut 
always easy, and sometimes elegant. He spoke but littTe, yet 
what he said contributed, in no small degree, to elevate him 
in the respect of all around. His air was subdued, when he 
spoke, to a woman-mildness ; and his words were usually ut- 


THE WoLf'- IN NKW COLORS. 


25a 


tcred in a bov, soA tone, lillle above a coininon wliispcr, yet 
sufficiently measured and slow in tlieir utterance to be beard 
without difficulty by those to whom they were addressed. 
What a difference was there between the same man sitting at 
the hospitable board, and, when leading forward liis army but 
a few hours before, he rushed headlong, with kindled and ra- 
ging spirit, upon the tracks of his Hying foe ! There waA 
nothing now in his look or language which could indicate the 
savage soldier. Was he, indeed, the same bloodthirsty war- 
rior, whose renown, by no means an enviable one, had been 
acquired by the most wanton butcheries in the fields of Caro 
lina ? This was the inquiry in the minds of all those who 
ni*w looked upon him. Certainly a most remarkable alteration 
seemed, in the eyes of all who before had known him, in a 
little time to have come over the spirit of the fierce Avarrior; 
and it is somewhat singular and worthy of remark, that he 
gained no distinction, and won no successes of any moment, 
after this period. His achievements were few and unimpor- 
tant; and two repulses which he received at the hands of 
Sumter, followed up, as they were, by the terrible defeat which 
he sustained at the Cowpens, finished his career as a favorite 
of fortune in the partisan warfare of the South. Ilis name 
lost its terrors soon after this among those with whom it had 
previously been so potent ; and, though his valor was at all 
periods above suspicion, yet, in his reverses, it became the 
ffishioii to disparage his soldierly skill, even among those whom 
he commanded. It was then discovered that he had only con- 
tendejJ, hitherto, with raw militiamen, whom it required but 
little merit, beyond that of mere brute courage, to overthrow; 
and that his successes entirely ceased from the moment wdien 
that same militia, taught by severe and repeated ex})erience 
of defeat, had acquired, in time, some little of the address of 
regular and practised warfare. There Avas, no doubt, much 
that was sound in this opinion. 

But — the dinner was fairly over, and Tarleton withdreAv, 
after a few moments devoted to pleasant conversation with the 
now composed Rose Duncan, from whose mind all the terrors 
of the previous combat, in which she had shared so much, 


260 


MELLTCHAMFE. 


seemed entirely to liave gone. She was only a creature of 
passing impressions. To Janet he said but little ; but his eyes 
sometimes rested upon her with an air of melancholy abstrac- 
tion, which gave to his otherwise pale features an expression 
of feeling and nice sensibilities, which his profession might 
seem to belie. But, before he took his departure, he led her 
aside to a window in the cottage, and thus addressed her, in 
the style of one sufficiently her friend and senior to speak 
firmly and directly, even on a topic the most difficult and de- 
licate in the estimation of a maiden. 

“ I have given Captain Barsfield his orders touching our pris- 
oner, Miss Berkeley ; perhaps it would not be unpleasing to 
you to know what those orders”^ are V* 

She looked down, and her desire to hear was sufficiently 
shown in her unwillingness to speak. He proceeded, after a 
brief pause, in the course of which his lips put on the same 
sweet smile of graciousness which had won the heart of the 
maiden before ; wffiile, at the same time, it commanded a some- 
thing more in the way of return than a mere corresponding 
deference of manner. So foreign to his lips was that expres- 
sion, so adverse to his general character was that smile of 
gentleness, that even while it gratified her to behold it, she 
looked up to the wearer of it with a feeling little short of 
awe. 

“ Mr. Mellichampe is in no danger — no present danger — 
as my surgeon informs me ; but he must be kept quiet aud 
without interruption until well, as he appears feverish, aud 
his mind seems disposed to wander. The better to effect 
this object, I have ordered, that except my surgeon and his 
assistant, none but your father and yourself shall be ad- 
mitted to his chamber. I have made this exception in your 
favor. Miss Berkeley, as my surgeon at the same time informs 
me that he will need the offices of a careful nurse — ” 

“Oh, sir — ” was the involuntary exclamation of Janet, as 
she heard this language ; but Tarleton did not allow her to 
proceed. 

“ No idle objections, my dear young lady, no false notions 
of propriety and a misplaced delicacy at this moment. J 


THE WOLF IN NEW COLORS. 


2()i 

know sufficiently your secret ; which is no secret now to 
any in our troop. Your duty commands that you attend this 
young man, and none but the^eeble mind will find any fault 
with you for its performance. In matters of this sort, your 
own heart is the best judge, and to that I leave it, whether 
you will avail yourself of the privilege which I have granted 
you or not. The youth is in no danger, says my surgeon, but 
he may be if he is not carefully nursed. Pardon me for so 
long detaining you, I shall do so no longer. My orders are 
given to secure you at all times admission to the chamber of 
Mr. Mellichampe, should you desire it.” 

“ But, oh ! sir, what of Captain Barsfield ? These charges — ” 
“ Are slight, no doubt, but must be inquired into. Mr. Melli- 
champe is the prisoner of Captain Barsfield, and must await 
his trial. I can do nothing further, unless it be to promise that 
all justice shall be done him.” 

“ But may he not be put in other hands, Colonel Tarleton, 
than those of Captain Barsfield ? Oh! sir — I dread that man 
He will do Mellichampe some harm.” 

“Fear not, Captain Barsfield dare not harm him, he has 
quite too much at venture. It is for this very reason, with tihe 
view to the perfect security of the prisoner, that I have made 
Barsfield his keeper. His fidelity is pledged for the security 
of his charge, and I have dwelt upon the responsibility to him 
in such language as will make him doubly careful. But you 
do Captain Barsfield wrong; he has no such design as that 
you speak of; his hostility to Mr. Mellichampe is simply that 
of the soldier toward his enemy. Unless in fair fight, I am 
sure he would never do him harm.” 

Janet shook her head doubtfully, as she replied, “ I know 
him better, sir, I know that he hates Mellichampe for many 
reasons, but I may not doubt the propriety of your arrange- 
ments. I will, sir, take advantage of the permission made in 
my favor, and will myself become the nurse of Mr Melli- 
champe. Why should I be afraid or ashamed, sir ? Am I not 
his betrothed — his wife in the sight of Heaven 1 I will be 
his nurse — why should I be ashamed 

“ Ay ; why should you. Miss Berkeley ? Truth and virtue 


262 


ArKrJJCTIAMPE. 


may well be fearless, at all times, of Inimaii opinion ; and they 
cease to be truth and virtue Avhen the fear of what men may 
think, or say, induces a disregard of that which they conceive 
to be their duty. With me you lose nothing by the declara- 
tion 3^11 have just made. It is one I looked for from you. 
'I'he confidence of virtue is neverunworthy of the source from 
which it springs, and it doubly confirms and strengthens virtue 
itself, when it shows the possessor to be resolute after right, 
witliout regard to human arrangements, or the petty and pas- 
sing circumstances of society. It is the child’s love that is 
driven from its ground by the dread of social scandal. The 
only love that man esteems valuable is that which can dare all 
things, but wrong, in behalf of the valued object. ’J’his is 
your love now, and 3’ou have my prayer — if the ‘prayer of a 
rough soldier like myself be not a wrong to so pure a spirit 
— that it be always hallowed in the sight of Heaven, and suc- 
cessful beyond the control of earth.” 

He took a respectful parting, and on leaving her to rejoin 
the party, his manner changed to that of the proud man he 
commonl}^ appeared. An inflexible sternness sat upon his pale 
amj stonelike countenance — the lips were set rigidly — the 
eye was shrouded by the overhanging brow, that gathered 
above it like some heavy cloud over some flaming and malig- 
nant planet. He spoke but few words to the rest of the 
family. A cold word of acknowledgment to Mr. Berkeley, a 
courteous bow and farewell to Rose Duncan, whose confidence 
was now half restored, the din of battle being over, and a 
single look and partial smile to Janet, preceded his immediate 
departure to the edge of the forest, where, during the dinner 
repast, his temporary camp had been formed. From this point 
he threw out his sentinels and sent forth his scouting parties. 
These latter traversed the neighboring hummocks, and ran- 
sacked eveiy contiguous cover, in which a lurking squad of 
rebels might have taken up a hiding-place, in waiting for the 
moment when a fancied security on the part of the foe should 
invite to the work of annoyance or assault. Such was the na- 
ture of the Indian v/arfare which the “ swamp fox,” with so 
much general success, had adopted as his own. Tarleton 


tup: avoi.f in new colors. 


2 ^ 5 ?. 

knew too Avell tlie danger of snrjnise, with a foe so wary in 
liis neigliborliood, and aceordingly sjoired none of those prO' 
cautions to which, in ordinary cases, hitherto, he had hceii 
rather indifferent. He cited Blonay before him on reaching 
his camp, examined him closely as to tlie route they were next 
day to pursue, and concluded by warning him to be in readi- 
ness with the dawn of day. 

“You shall be well rewarded if we succeed,” were his con- 
cluding words to the scout, “ well rewarded if you are faithful, 
evmn though we do not succeed ; but if you fail me, sirrah, if 
T catch you playing false, the first tree and a short cord are 
your certain doom.” 

The half-breed touched his cap, and, without showing any 
emotion at this language, retired from the presence of the 
iegioTiftry. 


264 


MELLICHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

SCOUTING. 

That iiiglit, as soon as he deemed it prudent, Barsfield, 
punctual to his engagement with the half-breed, left the 
camp, and, without observation, proceeded to the place of 
meeting which had been determined upon between them. He 
was not long in finding the person he sought. Blonay was no 
less punctual than his employer, and the shrill whistle of the 
latter, thrice repeated through his folded hands, soon brought 
him from his cover. The half-breed answered the signal 
readily, and in a few moments after emerged from the hum- 
mock in which, with a taste of his own, he had taken up his 
abode. A dim light was shining from the sky, only sufficient 
to enable the tory to recognise the outline, but not the sev- 
eral features, of his companion’s person. Blonay freely ex- 
tended his hand, and the fleshless, bony fingers took in their 
grasj those of Barsfield, who did not hesitate to follow his 
guidance, though he somewhat loathed the gripe of his con- 
ductor. 

“"VTliy go further — why not remain and talk here?” was 
his demand. 

There’s no telling, cappin, who’s a listening, Singleton's 
men’s watching me now; and Colonel Tarleton, he doesn’t 
trust me, and there’s two of the dragoons that’s kept close on 
my heels ever since I seed him last. It’s true I dodged ’em 
when the sun went down, but they ’re on the look-out yet, I 
reckon.” 

“And why did you dolge them — you did n’t mean to run?” 
demanded the other. 

“No, but I’d rather a man shoot me than peep over my 


SCOUTING. 


265 


shoulder; it’s like a log round the neck, to be always looked 
after.” 

“And why do you think that Singleton’s men are also look- 
ing out for you ?” 

“ ’Cause one of them knows I ’m in these parts, and he 
knows I’m dangerous.” 

“ But can he find you ?” 

“ He’s a horn swamp-sucker like myself, and he's dangerous 
too. He knows I’m hereabouts, and I reckon he can’t sleep 
easy till he finds me — or I find him.” 

Barsfield no longer objected, and together they penetrated 
the covert until they reached a dry spot, where, with a fancy 
as natural as it was peculiar, the half-breed had chosen his 
temporary dwelling, in preference to that of the camp or plan- 
tation. A few brands of the resinous pine, in which commodity 
the country around was abundantly supplied, Avere huddled 
together and in a blaze, which, though bright enough to illu- 
mine all objects around them, was imperceptible on the outer 
edge of the hummock, from the exceeding density of its foliage. 
A huge gum-tree, that stood upon the bank, sent up bulgingly 
above the surface a monstrous series of roots, Avhich, covered 
v/ith fresh moss, had made the pillow of the inhabitant. A 
thick coat of clustering oak-leaves, the tribute of a tree that 
had made such a deposite probably for a hundred winters, 
composed the sylvsyi couch of the outlier, while the folding 
and thickly-leaved branches overhead afforded him quite as 
gracious a cover from the unfriendly deAvs as it Avas in the 
nature of a form so callous to need or to desire. But the place 
seemed cheerless to Barsfield, in spite of the geliial tempera- 
ture of the season, and the bright flame burning before him. 

“And you sleep here, Mr. Blonay?” Avas his involuntary 
question. 

“ Yes, cappin, here or further in the bush. If I hear strange 
noises that I don ’t like, I slips down further into the ba}^ and 
then I’m sure to be safe, for it’s a mighty troublesome Avay to 
take, and very few people like to hunt in such bottoms ; it’s all 
sloppy, and full of holes, and the water’s as black as pitch.” 

“What noise is that?” said Barsfield. 

12 


266 


MELLTCIIAMPK. 


“Oil, that? that's only my hig alligator: I can tell liis 
voice from all the rest, for it sounds hoarse, as if he had 
cotched a cold from coming out too soon last Ma3^ He ’s a 
mighty big fellow, and keeps in a deep, dirty pond, jist to the 
back of you. I shouldn't be supprised to see him crawling out 
this way directly; he sometimes does when I’m tying here in 
the daytime.” 

Barsfield started and looked round him, as an evident rust- 
ling in the rear seemed to confirm the promise of Blonay. 
The latter smilecFas he proceeded : — 

“Don’t be scared, cappin, for if a body aint scared he can ’t 
do no harm with ’em. When he comes out and looks at me, I 
jist laughs at him, and claps my hands, and he takes to his 
heels directly. They won^t trouble you much onlj?^ when 
they’re mighty hungry, and aint seed hog-meat for a long 
time, and then they won’t trouble jmu if you make a great 
noise and splash the water at ’em.” 

“ Why don’t you shoot him ?” 

“ Adrat it ! I did n’t load for him ; it’s no use : if I had been 
to shoot alligators, I needn’t have come up from Goose creek. 
I could have had my pick there, at any time, of a dozen, jist 
as big and not so hoarse as this fellow: I picked mj’ bulhu 
for quite another sort of varmint.” 

. “ And what of Jiim'l Have you seen himV' 

“ Yes,” was the single and almost stern reply. 

“ Within rifle shot ?” 

“Not twenty yards off,” was the im'mediate answer. 

“And why did you spare him?” 

“ Other people was with him : I would have shot him by 
himself.” 

“I see; you had no wish to be cut up immediate!}’ after 
Y'our hatred to your enem}^ Blonay, does not blind you to the 
wisdom of escaping after you have murdered him.” 

The half-breed did not seem to understand what Barsfield 
said ; but his own meaning was so obvious to himself, that he 
did not appear to think it necessaiy to repeat his words, oi 
undertake more effectually to explain them. His, indeed, 
was the true Indian warfare, as, in great part, his was the 


SCOUTING. 


267 


Indian blood and temper. To win every advantage, to secure 
success and triumpli without risk and with impunity, are the 
principles of tlie savage nature always; and to obtain revenge 
without corresponding disadvantage, makes the"*viitue of such 
an achievement. These, indeed, may be held the principles 
of every people conscious of inferiority to those whom they 
oppose and hate. 

So far the dialogue between Barsfield and his comrade had 
been carried on without any reference to the particular subject 
of interest which filled the bosom of the former. He seemed 
reluctant to speak further upon this topic; and, when he did 
speak, his reluctance, still preserved, produced a halting and 
partial utterance only of his feelings and desires, as if he 
somewhat repented of the degree of confidence wliich he had 
already reposed in the person to whom lie spoke. But the 
desire to avail himself of the services of this man, and the con- 
sciousness of having already gone so far as to make any future 
risk of this sort comparatively unimportant, at length impelled 
him to a full expression of his desire to get Mellichampe out 
of his way, and, with this object, to hear from Blona^s and to 
suggest himself, sundry plans for this purpose. The great 
difficulty consisted in the position of Barsfield himself in rela- 
tion to the prisoner so particularly intrusted to his charge by 
Tarleton, and with orders so imperative and- especial. This 
was the grand difficulty, which it required all the ingenuity 
of Barsfield to surmount. Had Mellichampe been the prisoner 
of Tarleton, or of any other person than Barsfield himself, the 
murder of the*youth would most probably have been effected 
that very night, suqh was the unscrupulous hatred of the tory, 
if not of Blonay. For the present, we may say that the half- 
breed might not so readily have fallen into any plan of Bars- 
field which would have made him the agent in the commission 
of the deed. 

“ You go with Tarleton to-morrow : you will not keep w ith 
him, for he goes down to Sinkler’s Meadow. When do you 
return 

“Well, now, there’s no telling, cappin, seeing as how the 
col#nel may w'ant me to go ’long wdth him.” 


268 


MELLICITAMPE. 


“ He will not, when you have shown him to the camp of 
Marion.” 

“ Well, if so be he don’t. I’ll be back mighty soon after I 
leaves him. 1 don’t want to go with him, ’cause I knows 
there’s no finding a man’s enemy in pertic’lar, when there’s a 
big company ’long.” 

“ It is well. You will be back, then, by to-morrow night, 
and I will then put you upon a plan which will enable you to 
get this boy out of the way for me.” 

“Well, but, cappin, ha’n’t you got him now? It’s mighty 
easy now, as I toll’d you before, to do for him yourself.” 

“You do not seem to understand, Blonay. I am prevented 
from doing anything, as Tarleton has made me directly respon- 
sible for the appearance of the prisoner.” 

“ Adrat it, who’s to know when the colonel’s gone ? The 
chap’s hurt and sick. Reckon he can die by natur.” 

Barsfield understood him, and replied — 

“ Yes, and nature might be helped in his case, but that 
Tarleton’s own surgeon and assistants remain, and none but 
the Berkeley family are to be admitted to the prisoner. If I 
could report at my pleasure on his condition, it might easily be 
done; but I can not. It must be done by another, if done at 
all, and in such a way as will show that I could have had no 
hand in it. I have a plan in my mind for this purpose, which 
you shall execute on your return, by which means I shall 
avoid these difficulties. You are willing?” 

“Well, yes, I reckon. It don’t take much to finish a chap 
that’s half dead already; but — I say, cappin — does you 
really think now that that ’ere gal has a notion for him ?” 

The question seemed to Barsfield exceedingly impertinent, 
and he replied with a manner sufficiently haughty : — 

“ What matters it to you, sirrah, whether she has such a 
notion or not ? How does it concern you ? and what should 
you know of love ?” 

“No harm, cappin — I doesn’t mean any harm; it don’t 
consarn me, that’s true. But, adrat it, cappin, she’s a mighty 
fine gal : and she does look so sweet and so sorry all the time, 
jist as if she wouldn’t hurt a mean crawling black spider that 
was agin the wall,” 


SCOUTING. 


2G9 


Barsfield looked with some surprise at the speaker, as lie 
heard him utter a language so like that of genuine feeling, and 
in tones that seemed to say that he felt it ; and he was about to 
make some remark when Blonay, who had stood during this 
dialogue leaning with his shoulder against a tree, and his head 
down in a listless manner upon his bosom, now started into an 
attitude and expression of the most • watchful consciousness. 
A pause of a few moments ensued, when, hearing nothing, 
Barsfield was about to go on with the speech which the man- 
ner of his companion had interrupted, when the half-breed 
again stopped him with a whisper, while his finger rested u^on 
the arm of the tory in cautious warning. 

“Hist; I hear them — there are no less than three feet in 
that swamp — don’t you hear them walking in the water? 
There, now. You hear when the flat of the foot comes down 
upon the water.” 

“ I hear nothing,” said Barsfield. 

Without a word, the half-breed stooped to the single brand 
that was now blazing near them, and gathering a double hand- 
ful of dirt from the hillock, he threw it upon the flame and 
extinguished it in an instant. The. next moment they heard 
the distant crackling of dry sticks and a rustling among the 
leaves. 

“ It may be your great alligator,” said Barsfield. 

“No — it’s men — Marion’s men, I reckon — and there’s three 
of them, at least. They are spying on the camp. Lie close.” 

Barsfield did not immediately stoop, and the half-breed did 
not scruple to grasp his arm with an urgency and force which 
brought the tory captain forward. He trod heavily as he did 
so upon a cluster of the dried leaves which had formed the 
couch of Blonay, and a slight whistle reached their ears a 
moment after, and then all was silence. The tory and his 
companion crouched together behind the huge gum under 
which the latter had been accustomed to sleep, and thus they 
remained without a word for several minutes. No sound in all 
that time came to their senses; and Barsfield, rather more 
adventurous than Blonay, or less taught in the subtleties of 
swamp warfare, tired of his position, arose slowly from the 
ground and thrust his head from bel 'id the tree, endeavoring, 


270 


MELLICHAMPE. 


in the dim light that occasionally stole from the heavens into 
those deep recesses, to gather what he could of the noises 
which had disturbed them. The hand of the half breed, 
grasping the skirts of his coat, had scarcely drawn him hack 
into the shelter of the tree, when the whizzing of the bullet 
through the leaves, and the sharp crack of the rifle, v arned 
him of his own narrow escape, and of the close proximity of 
danger. 

“ I knows where they are now,” said Blonay, in a whisper, 
changing his position; “we are safe enough if you can stick 
close to me, cappin.” 

“Lead on — I’ll follow,” was the reply, in the same low 
whisper which conveyed the words of Blonay. The half- 
breed instantly hurled a huge half-burnt chunk of wood 
through the bushes before him, the noise of which he neces- 
saril}^ knew would call the eyes of the scouts in that direction; 
then, in the next instant, bounding to the opposite side, he 
took his way between two clumps of bays which grew in the 
miry places along the edge of the tussock on which they had 
been standing. Bai'sfield followed closely and without hesita- 
tion, though far from escaping so well the assaults of the briers 
and bushes upon his cheeks. His guide, with a sort of instinct, 
escaped all these smaller assailants, and, though he heard the 
footsteps behind of his pursuers, he did not now apprehend any 
danger, either for himself or his companion, having thrown the 
thick growth of bays between them. 

The party which so nearly effected the surprise of the two 
conspirators came out of their lurking-place an instant after 
their flight. The conjecture of the half-breed had been cor- 
rect. They were the men of Marion. 

“ You fired too soon, Lance,” were the words of Humphries, 
“ and the skunk is off. Had you waited but a little longer At'e 
should have had him safe enough. Now there’s no getting 
him, for he has too greatly the start of us.” 

“ I couldn’t help it, Mr. Humphries. I saw the shiny but- 
tons, and I thought I had dead aim upon him.” 

“But how comes he with shiny buttons, John Davis?” said 
H;inij)hries, quickly. “ When you sa^y him to-day he had on 
a blue homespun did he not?’* 


271 


scorn NG. 

“ Yes — 1 seed liiin plain eiiouglj,” said Davis, '‘and I could 
swear to tlie lioinespim — but didn’t you bear as if two was 
walking togetlier?” 

“ No.” 

“Well, I did; and ’t was reasonable I should bear before 
you, seeing I was ahead. I beard them clear enough, first one 
and then t’other, and one walked in the Avater Avhile t’other 
was on the brush.” 

“D — 11 the skunk, that I should lose him; it’s all your 
fault, Lance. You’re too quick and hot headed, noAv-a-days; 
and it’ll be a long time before you can be a good SAvamp-fox, 
unless you go more slowly, and learn to love less the sound of 
your rifle. But it’s useless to stay here noAv, and Ave’ve got 
other Avork to do. Our sport’s spoiled for this time, and all 
we can do is to take off as quick as Ave can ; for it Avon ’t be 
long before the scouts of Tarleton Avill be poking here aft(‘r 
us. That shot must bring them in this direction, so Ave’ll push 
round to the opposite side of the bay, where the rest of the 
red-coats are iir camp.” 

“But, Mr. Humphries, can’t I go noAv and pick off that sen 
.try Ave passed by the avenue ?” demanded Lance Frampton, 
with much earnestness. 

“ No, d — n the sentry; if you had jiicked off this skunk of a 
half-breed, it would have been something noAv I should have 
thanked you for; that’s what I mostly come after. As for 
the other, there’s too much risk now. We must take a cross- 
track, and get round to the river by the gun-flats. Come, 
push — away.” 

They had scarcely moved off Avhen a stir and hum in the 
direction of Tarleton’s camp announced to them that the alarm 
had been given, and hurried the preparations of Humphries 
for their departure. The scouts of Barsfield, led by the tory 
himself and guided by Blonay, after a while scoured narroAvly 
the recesses of the bay : but the men of Marion had melted 
away like spectres in the distant Avoods ; and, chafed and cha- 
grined, the tory Avent back to his quarters, fatigued with the 
unprofitable pursuit, and irritated into sleeplessness, as he 
found himself in the close neighborhood of a foe so wary and 
sc. venturesome. 


272 


MEL: ICHAMPK. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE BIRD FLOWN. 

At day-dawn the next morning, the trumpet of the legion 
sounded shrilly over the grounds where Tarleton, during the 
night, had made his encampment. With the signal each 
trooper was at his post. Tarleton himself was already dressed, 
and about to buckle the heavy sabre at his side which his arm 
had ever been so proverbially ready to wield. The fire, the 
stern enthusiasm, which grew out of his impatience for the 
strife, already glowed balefully and bright upon hiS counte- 
nance. He was joined at this moment by another — .in officer ; 
a man something his senior, and, like him, accustomed seem- 
ingly to command. 

“Your trumpets sound unseasonably, ^IJ*arleton, and de- 
stroyed as pleasant a vision as ever came from the land of 
dreams. I fancied the wars were over — that I was once again 
in old England, with all the little ones and their sweet dam 
about me; and your heartless trumpet took them all from my 
embrace — all at one fell swoop.” 

Tarleton smiled, but smiled in such a sort that the speaker 
almost blushed to have made his confession of domestic ten- 
derness to such uncongenial ears. He continued : — 

“ But you care nothing for these scenes, and scruple not to 
break into such pleasures to destroy. You have no such sweet 
cares troubling you at home.” 

“ None, Mon crieflf — none, or few. Perhaps I might please 
no less than surprise you, were I to say that I wish I had ; 
but I will not yield yon so much sympathy ; particularly 
'indeed, as there is no time for these matters or such talk when 
we are on the eve of grappling with an enemy.” 


THE BIRD FLOWN. 


273 


“Enemy? wliat enemy?” demanded the other. 

“ Our old enemy, the ‘ swamp-fox,’ ” responded Tarleton, 
coolly. 

“ What, Marion ! why, where is he ?” 

“ But a few miles off. I hope to have late breakfast with 
him — time serving, God willing, and our appetite for fight as 
good as that for breakfast.” 

“ Bui know you where he is, and how ? Will he stand for 
your coming? Will he not fly, as usual — double himself 
round a cypress while you are piercing your way through its 
bowels ?” 

“ Ay, doubtless if he can ; we must try to prevent that, and 
I have hopes that we can do it. His scouts have been around 
us, like so many vultures, all night; and Barsfield reports that 
one has had the audacity to fire upon a sentinel. This shows 
him to be at liand, and in sufficient force to warrant the belief 
that he will stand a brush.” 

“ But how find him, Tarleton ? His own men can not easily 
do that, and you have never yet been allowed to see his 
feathers.” 

“I shall now, however, I think ; fori perceive our guide 
stands in readiness. Look at him, Moncrieff : did you ever 
see such a creature? Look at his eyes; do they not give you 
pain, positive pain, to survey them ? They seem only to be 
kept in his head by desperate effort; and yet, behold his 
form. He does not appear capable of effort — scarcely, in- 
deed, of movement. His limbs seem hung on hinges, and one 
leg, as you perceive, appears always, as now, to have thrown 
the whole weight of the body upon the other.” 

“ A strange monster, indeed : and is that the creature to 
serve you ? Can he put you on the trail ?” 

“ He pledges himself to do so. He has seen the ‘ swamp- 
fox’ and his men, all at ease, in their camp, and promises that 
I shall see them too, under his guidance.” 

“ And you will trust him ?” 

“ I will.” 

“ What security have you that he does not carry you into 
trap ?” 


12 


274 


MKMJCllAMPK. 

“Ills own neck; for, as sure as lie makes a false move, lie 
swings from tlie nearest sapling. He shall be watched.” 

“ If this be the case, Tarleton, how can yon go forward 1 
Will it not he for me then to execute my mission ?” 

“ Not till I fail. If .1 can drub Marion, and either put him 
to death or make a prisoner. of him, your mission will be null. 
There will be no use in buying one whom we can beat. But 
if he now escapes me, I give it up. He would escape the 
devil. You may then seek him out with your most pacific 
aspect ; offer him his pension and command among us, as our 
sagacious commander-in-chief has ahead}’' devised, and make 
the best use afterward of his skill in baffling Green, as he so 
long has baffled us. If he does half' so well for his majesty as 
for his continental prog-princes, he will be worth quite as 
much as you offer for him, and something more.” 

“True; but, Tarleton, this chance may never offer again. 
We may never get a guide who will be able to pilot me 
through these d — d impervious and pestilential morasses — 
certainly few to show me where to find him out.” 

“We must risk that, Moncrieff. ^ I will not give up my 
present chance of striking him, though you never have the 
opportunity you seek. He has baffled me too long already, 
and my pride is something interested to punish him. The 
prospect is a good oim, and I will not lose it. Hark you, 
fellow !” 

The last words were addressed to Blonay, who, in sight 
of the speaker all the while, now approached at the older. 
'The stern, stony eye of the fierce legionary rested upon him 
searchingly, with a penetrating glance scarcely to be with- 
stood by any gaze, and certainly not by that of the half breed, 
who never looked any one in the face. Some seconds elapsed 
before Tarleton spoke ; and when he did, his words were cold, 
slow, brief, and to the purpose. 

“You are ready, sir?” 

The reply was affirmative. 

“ You hold to your assertion that you can lead me to where 
Marion camps ? ’ 

“ I can lead you. sir, to his camp, but I can’t say for his 


I'Hl-: BIRD FLOWN. 275 

• 

being in it. He may get wind of you, if liis scouts Imppcn to 
be out.” 

“I know, I know, you said this before, and proposed, if 1 
remember rightly, that I should divide my force in order to 
mislead. But I know better than to do that. I risk notliing 
now when I know nothing of his force, and I am not so sure, sir, 
tliat you are altogether the man to be relied on. I shall watch 
you, sirrah ; and remember, it is easier, fellow, to hang you up 
to a bough than to threaten it. Go — prepare. Ho! there, 
11 odgson, put half a dozen of your best dragoons in charge of 
tliis guide, and keep him safe, as you value your bones.” 

“ I will not run, sir,” said Blonay, looking up for the first 
time into the face of Tarleton. 

“ I know that, sir — you shall not,” responded the other coolly. 

The signal to move was given in a few moments after, and 
Barsfield saw the departure of Tarleton in pursuit of Marion 
with a singular feeling of satisfaction and relief. 

It is not our present purpose, however, to pursue the route 
taken by Colonel Tarleton in search of his famous adversary. 
Such a course does not fall within the purpose of our present 
narrative. It may be well, however, as it must be swfiicient, 
to say, that, under the guidance of Blonay, he penetrated 
the spacious swamp of the Santee, and was led faithfully into 
and threugh its intricj?cies — but he penetrated them in vain. 
Step by step, as the dense body pressed its way through brake, 
bog, /ind brier, did they hear the mysterious signals of the 
wattdiful partisans, duly communicating to one another the ap- 
proach of the impending danger. 

Vainly did Tarleton press forward his advance in the hope 
of arri\ ing at the camp before these signals could possibly reach 
it; but such a pathway to his heavily-mounted men was very 
different in its facilities to those who were accustomed daily 
to glide through it; and the scouts of Marion hung about ''rarle- 
ton’s advance in front, sometimes venturing in sight, and con- 
tinually ^\ithin hearing, to the utter defiance of the infuriated 
legionary, who saw that nothing could be done to diminish the 
distance between them. At length they reached tin', ishand 
where the “ swamp-fox” made his home, but the bird had flown. 


276 


MKI.LICHAMPE. 


The couch of rushes where Marion slept was still warm — 
the fragments of the half-eaten breakfast lay around the logs 
which formed their rude boards of repast, but not an enemy 
was to be seen. 

Stimulating his men by promises and threats, Tarleton still 
pursued, in the hope to overtake the flying partisans before 
they could reach the Santee ; but in vain were all his efforts ; 
and, though moving with unexampled celerity, he arrived on 
the banks of the rapid river only in time to behold the last of 
the boats of the “swamp-fox” mingling with the luxurious 
swamp foliage on the opposite side. The last twenty- four 
hours had been busily and profitably employed by Marion. 
He had utterly annihilated the tories who had gathered at 
Sinkler's Meadow. Never, says the history, had surprise been 
more complete. He came upon the wretches while they played 
at cards, and dearly did they pay for their temerity and heed- 
lessness. They were shot down in the midst of dice and drink, 
foul oaths and exultation upon their lips, and with those bitter 
thoughts of hatred to their countrymen within their hearts 
which almost justified the utmost severities of that retribution 
to which the furious partisans subjected them. 


lovers’ doubts and dreams. 


277 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 
lovers’ doubts and dreams. 

Let us now return to Janet Berkeley and the wounded Mel* 
lichampe. Tarleton had not deceived the maiden. The hiirti 
of her lover, though serious and painful, were yet not danger- 
ous, unless neglected ; and as the privilege was accorded her 
— the sweetest of all privileges to one who loves truly — of 
being with and tending upon the beloved one, there was no 
longer reason to apprehend for his safety, from the injuries al- 
ready received. The apprehensions of Janet Berkeley were, 
naturally enough, all addressed to the future. She knew the 
enemy in whose custody he lay ; and, though half consoled 
by the positive assurances of Tarleton, and compelled, from 
the necessity of the case, to be satisfied, she was yet far from 
contented with the situation of her lover. 

His first moment of perfect consciousness, after his wounds 
had been dressed, found her, a sweet minister waiting at his 
side. Her hand bathed bis head and smoothed his pillow — 
her eye, dewy and bright, hung like a sweet star of promise 
above his form — her watchful care brought him the soothing 
medicine — her voice of love cheered him into hope with the 
music of a heaven-born affection. Every whisper from her lips 
was as so much melody upon his ear, and brought with it a 
feeling of peace and quiet to his mind, which had not often 
been a dweller there before. Ah, surely, love is the heart’s 
best medicine ! It is the dream of a perfect spirit-— the solace 
of the otherwise denied — the first, the last hope of all not ut 
terly turned away from the higher promptings and better pur- 
poses of a divine humanity. 

How sweet became his hurts to Mellichampe under such at- 


27S 


AIELLIOHAMPK 


tendance ! The pain of his wounds and bruises grew into a 
positive pleasure, as it brouglit her nigh to him — and so nigh 1 
— as it disclosed to his imagination such a long train of enjoy- 
ments .in the future, coming from the constant association with 
her. Love no longer wore her garb of holyday, but, in the 
rustic and unostentatious dress of home, she looked more 
lovely to his sight, as she seemed more natural. Hitherto, he 
had sought her only for sweet smiles and blessing words ; now 
she gave him those cares of the true affection which manifested 
its sincerity, which met the demand for them unshrinkingly 
and with pleasure, and which bore their many tests, not only 
without complaint or change, but with a positive delight. It 
was thus that her heart proved its disinterestedness and devo- 
tion ; and though Mellicli^mpe had never doubted her readi- 
ness to bestow so much, he yet never before had imagined the 
extent of her possession, and of the sweet liberality which 
kept full pace with her affluence. Until now, he had never 
realized, in his most reaching thought, how completely he 
should become a dependant upon her regards for those sweet 
sympathies, without which life is a barren waste, having the 
doom of Adam — that of a stern labor — without yielding him 
any of the flowers of Eden, and certainly withholding all, if 
denying that most cherished of all its flowers which he brouglit 
with him from its g;arden — the flower of unselfish love. 

To be able to confide is to be happy in all conditions, how- 
ever severe ; and this present feeling in his heart — the perfect 
reliance upon her affection — assured and strengthened the 
warm passion in his own, until every doubt and fear, selfish- 
ness and suspicion, were discarded from that region, leaving 
nothing in their place but that devotedness to the one worthy 
object which, as it is holy in the sight of Heaven, must he the 
dearest of all human possessions in the contemplation of man. 

With returning consciousness, when he discovered how she 
had been employed he carried her hand to his lips and kissed 
it fervently. He felt too much for several minutes to speak to 
her. When he ditl, his words were little else than exclama- 
tions. 

‘Ah, Janet — my own — my all ! — ever nigh to me, as you 


LOVEKS i)()Uin'S n DKICAMS. 




are ever dear, liow can I repajs liow respond to sncli sweet 
love? I now feel how very poor, ho.w very dependent, liow 
very destitute I am !” 

These were ♦almost the first words which he uttered after 
awakening from a long, deep, and refreshing sleep, into which 
he had been thrown by an opiate judiciously administered for 
that object. She had no reply, but, bending down to his pillow, 
her lips were pressed upon his forehead lightly, while her up- 
lifted finger warned him into silence. He felt a tear, hut a 
single tear, upon his cheek, while her head hung above him ; 
and so far from being destitute, as he had avowed bimsidf* 
before, he now felt how truly rich he was in the possession of 
such dear regards. 

“ Heaven bless you, my angel,” he continued, “ but T must 
talk to you, unless you will to me. Speak to me, tell me 
all, let me know what has passed. What of Major Single- 
ton and our men ?” 

“They are gone — safe.” 

“Ah! this is good. But Witherspoon — what of him ? he 
was fighting, when I saw him last, with two : they were ])ies- 
sing him hard, and I — I could give him no aid. What of him ; 
is he safe? Tell me: but do not say that harm has befallen 
him.” 

“He, too, is safe, dear Ernest ; I saw him as he fled.” 

“Ha! did he leave me, then ; and where? I looked not 
for that from him. Perhaps, it is so, he brought me to you, 
did he not ?” 

“ He did not, but then he could not, dearest. He was com- 
pelled to fly in haste. I saw him while he fled, and the dra- 
goons came fast* after him.” 

He would have put a thousand other (][uestions, and vainly 
she exhorted him to silence. She was compelled to narrate 
all she knew, in order to do that which her entreaties, in the 
great anxiety and impatience of his mind failed to effect. vSbe 
told him of the continued fight in the avenue, of the approach 
of Tarleton, and how, when the enemy had gone in pursuit of 
the flying partisans, she had sought and found him. Of these 
events lie had no recollection. She suppressed, however, all 


280 


MELLICHAMPE. 


of those matters which related to the second attempt of Bars- 
field upon his life while he lay prostrate, and of her own inter- 
position, which had saved him ; and took especial care to avoid 
every topic which could stimulate his anger or increase his 
anxiety. Of the conduct of Tarleton, so unusual and generous, 
she gave a full account ; an account which gave the hearer 
quite as much astonishment as pleasure. It certainly present- 
ed to his mind’s eye a new and much more agreeable feature 
in the character of that famous, or rather infamous, soldier. 

So sweet Avas it thus for him to hear, and so grateful to her to 
have such a pleased auditor, that the hours flew by impercep- 
tibly, and their mutual dream of love would not soon have 
been disturbed but for the sounds of Barsfield’s voice, which 
came from the passage-way, while he spoke in harsh dictation 
to the sentinels who watched the chamber of the wounded 
Mellichampe. 

The youth started as the well-known and hated accents met 
his ears. His brow gathered into a cloud, and he half raised 
himself from his pillow, while his eye flashed the fire of bat- 
tle, and his fingers almost violently grasped the wrist of the 
maiden, under the convulsive spasm of fury which seized upon 
and shook his enfeebled frame. 

“ That voice is Barsfield’s. Said you not, Janet, that I was 
Colonel Tarleton’s prisoner 

She answered him quickly, and with an air of timid appre 
hension — 

“ I did, dear Ernest ; but Colonel Tarleton has gone in 
pursuit of General Marion.” 

“And I am here at the mercy of this bloody wretch, this 
scoundrel without soul or character ; at his" mercy, without 
strength, unable to lift arm or weapon, and the victim of his 
will. Ha ! this is to be weak, this is to be a prisoner, indeed !” 

Bitterly and fiercely did he exclaim, as he felt the true des- 
titution of his present condition. 

“ Not at his will, not at his mercy, dear Ernest. Colonel 
Tarleton has promised me that you shall be safe, that he dare 
not harm you.” 

She spoke rapidly in striving to reassure her lover. Hei 


lovers’ doubts and dreams. 


2S1 


arm encircled liis neck, her tears flowed freely upon his cheeks, 
while her voice, even while it uttered clearly the very words 
of assurance which Tarleton had expressed, trembled as much 
with the force of her own secret fears as at the open expression 
of his. But her lover remained unsatisfied. He did not know 
the nature of those securities which Barsfield tacitly placed 
in the hands of his superior. 

“ Alas, Janet, I know this monster but too well not to appre 
hend the worst at his hands. He is capable of the vilest and 
the darkest wrongs where he hates and fears. But why should 
I fear 1 The power of the base and the tyrannical, thank 
Heaven ! has its limits, and he can but — ” 

“ Say not, Ernest, say not. He dare not, be will not. I 
believe in Colonel Tarleton.** 

“ So do not I ; but I fear not, my beloved. I have dared 
death too often already ; I have seen him in too many shapes, 
to tremble at him now. I fear him not : but to die like a 
caged rat, cooped in a narrow dungeon, and only preparing 
myself for the knife of the murderer, is to die doubly ; and 
this, most probably, is the doom reserved for me.** 

“ Think not so, think not so, Ernest, I pray you, think 
not so. God keep me from the horrible thought ! It can 
not be that Tarleton will suffer it ; it can not be that God 
will suffer it. I would not that you should speak so, Ernest ; 
and I can not think that this bad man, bad enough, though 
I believe him to be, for anything, will yet dare so far to 
incur the danger of offending his superior as to abuse his 
trust and gratify his malignity in the present instance. Oh, 
no ! he greatly fears Colonel Tarleton ; and, could you but 
have seen the look that Tarleton gave him, as he ordered 
him to take all care of you, had you but heard his words 
to me and to him both, you would not feel so apprehensive; 
and then, you know. Colonel Tarleton’s own surgeon is left 
with you, and none are to be permitted to see you but my- 
self and such persons as he thinks proper. 

“ I fear nothing, Janet, but distrust everything that belongs 
to this man Barsfield. Colonel Tarleton, I doubt not, has 
taken every precaution in my favor, though why he should do 


‘282 


MELLICIIAMI’E. 


SO I arn at a loss to deterinine ; but all precautions will be un- 
availing where a man like Barsfield is bent upon crime, 
and where, in addition to his criminal propensity, he has 
tlie habitual cunning of a man accustomed to its indulgence. 
He will contrive some means to shift the responsibility of 
the charge, in some moment or other, to other shoulders, 
and will avail himself of that moment to rid himself of me, 
If he possibly can. We must only be heedful of all change 
of circumstances, and seek to apprise Witherspoon of my sit- 
uation. He will not be far oj0f, I well know ; for he must be 
miserable in my absence.” 

“ Oh, trust me, Ernest, I shall watch you more closely than 
those sentinels. Love, surely, can watch as well as hate.” 

“Better — better, my Janet. May I deserve your care — 
your love May I always do justice, living or dying.” 

Her cheek rested upon his, and she wept freely to hear his 
words. He continued — 

“ I know that you will watch over me, and I chafe not more 
at my own weakness than at the charge and care that this 
dreary watch must impose upon you.” 

“A sweet care — a dear, not a dreary, watch. Oh ! Ernest 
— it is the sweetest of all cares to watch for the good of those 
we love.” 

“ I feel it sweet to be thus watched, dearest ; so sweet that, 
under other circumstances, I feel that I should not be willing 
to relieve you of the duty. But you have little strength — 
little ability, in corresponding even with your will to serve 
me. This villain will elude your vigilance — he will practise 
in some way upon you ; and oh, my Janet, what if he succeed 
in his murderous wish — what if — ” 

“ With a convulsive sob, that spoke the fullness of her heart 
and its perfect devotion, she threw herself upon his bosom, 
and her lips responded to his gloomy anticipations while inter- 
rupting them. 

“ I am not strong enough to save you, Ernest, and to con- 
tend with your murderer, if such he should become; but there 
is one thing that I am strong enough for.” 

“ What is that, dearest ?” 


LOVKKS DOUBTS AND DKIOAMS. 


2S;3 


“ To die for you at any moment.” 

And, for an hour after, a tearful silence, hroken only hy an 
occasional word, which spoke, like a long gatheiing te;iv, (lie 
overcrowding emotions to which it brought relief, was ;il! 'lie 
langunge of those two loving hearts, thus mingling sweetly 
together amid the strife and the storm — the present evil. I lie 
impending danger, and the ever-threatening dread, ddie stril'e 
and the hate without brought neither strife nor hate to tliein , 
and, like twin forms, mutually devoted to the last, amid the 
raging seas and on a single spar, they clung to each other 
satisfied, though the tempest raged and the waves threatened, 
to perish, if the}" might perish together. Tliey were not, in 
those sad moments, less confident and conscious of tlie sweets 
of a mutual love, though filled with anticipations of evil, and 
though they well knew that a malignant and unforgiving 
Hate stood watching at the door. And the affection was not 
less sweet and sacred that it was followed by the thousand 
doubts and apprehensions which at no moment uttr?. iy leave 
the truly devoted, and which, in the present instance, came 
crowding upon them with a thousand auxiliar terrors to exag- 
gerate the form of the danger, and to multiply the accumuia 
ting stings of fear. 


« 


284 


MKLI.TCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

LOVE PASSAGES. 

“ How sweet the days of Tlialaba went by !” Mellichanipe; 
under such attendance, soon grew insensible to all his suffer- 
ings. The bruises quickly disappeared — the wounds were 
healing rapidly. The care of the nurse surpassed in its happy 
effects the anticipations of the physicians, and the youth was 
getting well. The spirits of the two became strong and con- 
fident with the improvement of the patient; and their hearts 
grew happier, and their hopes more buoyant, with each day’s 
continued association. The world around them was gradually 
excluded from their contemplation ; and, blessed with the pres- 
ence of each other, the chamber of Mellichampe — his prison, 
as it was — closely watched by hostile eyes and guarded by 
deadly weapons — was large enough for the desires of one, at 
least, of the two within it. The relation existing between 
Janet Berkeley and Ernest Mellichampe appeared now to be 
understood by all parties. Her father had nothing to oppose 
— the maiden herself in the perilous moment, as it was thought, 
to the safety Of her lover, had fearlessly and proudly pro- 
claimed the ties existing between them ; and, if the prude 
Decorum could suggest nothing against the frequent and unob- 
structed meeting of the two, Virtue herself had no reason to 
apprehend ; for, surely, never yet did young hearts so closely 
and fervently cling to one another — yet so completely main 
tain the purity and the ascendency of their souls. Love, built 
upon esteem, is always secure from abasement — it is that pas- 
sion, falsely named love which grows out of a warm ima-^i a- 
tion and wild blood only, which may not be trusted by oaiers, 
as it is seldom entirely able to trust or to control itself. 


IX) VK PASSAGKS. 


285 


Rose Duncan complained, liowever, as she suflTered mncli hy 
the devotion of Janet Berkeley to her lover. This young girl 
was one of those, thoiisandg of whom are to be met with hourly, 
who derive all their characteristics from the color of events 
and things around them. She had little of that quality, or 
combination of qualities rather, which we call character. She 
was of a flexible and susceptible temperament. The hues of 
her mind came from the passing zephyr, or the overhanging 
cloud. She Jacked those sterner possessions of intrinsic 
tlniight which usually make their proprietor inde})endent of 
circumstances, and immovable under the operation of illegiti- 
mate influences. Unlike her graver companion, she had no 
sorrows, simply because she had little earnestness of character. 
She was usually lively and elastic in the extreme; and he 
who only casually observed might have imagined that a spirit 
so cheerful as hers ugiially appeared would not readily be 
operated upon or kept down by the occurrence of untoward 
events. But, if slie lacked all of those features of sadness 
which mellowed and made the loveliness of Janet’s character, 
and softened the quicker emotions of her soul, she was, at the 
same time, entirely wanting in that concentration of moral 
object which enables the possessor to address himself firmly 
and without scruple to the contest of those evils, whether in 
prospect or in presence, which, nevertheless, even when over- 
come, make the eye to weep and the soul to tremble. Rose 
Duncan would laugh at the prediction of evil, simply because 
she could never concentrate her thoughts sufficiently upon its 
consideration j . and thus, when it came upon her, she would he 
utterly unprepared to encounter it. Not so with Janet Berke- 
ley. Her heart, gentle and earnest in all its emotions, neces- 
sarily inclined her understanding and imagination to think 
upon and to estimate all those sources of evil, not less than of 
good, which belong to, and make up, the entire whole of hu- 
man life. Its sorrows she had prepared herself to endure from 
the earliest hours of thought; and it was thus that, when 
sorrow came to her in reality, it was the foregone conclusion 
to which her reflections had made her familiar, and for which 
her nerves were already prepared. The tale of suffering 


broiiglit foi-tli no less griol' tlwiii tlic actual experience of it, ana 
far less of tliat active s})irlt of resistance and that tenacious soul 
of endurance with which she was at all times prepared to con- 
tend with its positive inflictions. It was thus that she was ena- 
bled, when her more volatile companion lay unnerved and terri- 
fied at her feet, to go forth fearlessly amid all the danger and the 
dread, traverse the field of strife unshaken by its horrors, and, 
from among the dying and the dead, seek out the one object 
to whom, Avhen she had once pledged ber heart, she had also 
pledged the performance, even of a duty so trying and so sad; 
and, though she had sickened at the loathsome aspect of war 
around her, she had felt far less of terror in that one scene of 
real horrors than she had a thousand times before in the 
dreams begotten by an active imagination, and a soul earnest, 
devoted, and susceptible in the extreme. 

Often did Rose Duncan chide the maiden for her exclusive 
devotion to her lover, as she herself suffered privation from her 
devoted ness. 

“There is quite too much of it, Janet; he will be sick to 
death of you before you are married, if, indeed, you ever are 
married to him, which ought to be another subject of considera- 
tion with you. It would be very awkward if, after all these 
attentions on your part — this perfect devotion, I may call it 
— he should never marry you. I should never trust any man 
so far.” 

“ Not to trust is not to love. When I confide less in Melli- 
champe, I shall love him less. Rose, and I would not willingly 
think of such a possibility. In loving him I give up all selfish 
thoughts : I must love entirely, or not at all.” 

“ Ah, but how much do you risk by this 

“It is woman’s risk always. Rose, and I would not desire 
one privilege which docs not properly belong to my sex. I 
have no qualifications in my regard for Mellichampe., To my 
mind, his honor is as lofty as, to my heart, his affections are 
dear. I should weep — I should suffer dreadfully — if I 
thought, for an instant, that he believed me touched with a 
single doubt of his fidelity.” 

“Very right, perhaps, Janet, and you are nnly the bw-.L*»* 


LOVE PASSAGES. 


2S7 


girl for thinking as you do ; hut marriage and love are lot- 
teries, they say, and it is no wisdom to stake one’s all i^i a 
lottery. A little venture may do well enough, hut prudent 
people will he well-minded, and keep something in reserve. 1 
like that Scotchman’s advice of all things — 

“ ‘ Aye free aff han’ your story tell 
When wi’ a bosom crony, 

But still keep something to yourseU 
You seldom tell to ony 

“‘Conceal yourself, as well’s ye can 
Fra’ critical dissection. 

But keek through every other man 
Wi’ sharpened sly inspection.’ ” 

“And I think it detestable doctrine. Rose Duncan,” Janet 
responded, with something like indignation overspreading her 
beautiful, sad countenance for the instant, as a flash of parting 
sunlight sent through the deep forests in the last moment of 
his setting — 

“ I think it detestable doctrine, only becoming in a narrow- 
minded wretch, who, knavish himself, suspects all mankind of 
a similar character. Such doctrines are calculated to make 
monsters of one half of the world and victims of the other. 
This one verse I regard as the blot in a performance otherwise 
of great beauty, and wisely true in all other respects. No, n'o, 
Rose — I may be wrong — I may be weak — I may give my 
heart fondly and foolishly — I may train my affections un- 
profitably — but, oh, let me confide still, though I suffer for it ! 
Let me never distrust where I love — where I have set my 
heart — where I have staked all that I live for.” 

Rose was rebuked, and here, for a few moments, the conver- 
sation ended. But there was something still in the bosom of 
Janet which needed, and at length forced, its utterance : — 

“ And yet, Rose, there is one thing which you have said 
which pains me greatly. It may be true, that though, in 
seeking Mellichampe day by day, and hour by hour, I only 
feel myself more truly devoted to him ; it may be that sucIj 
will not be the feeling with him; it may be that he will, as 


288 


MELLICHAMPK. 


yon say, grow tired of that which he sees so frequently ; it 
may be that he will turn away from me, and weary of my 
regards. I have heard before this, Rose, that the easy won 
was but little valued of men — that the seeker was still un- 
sought — and that, when the heart of woman was secured, she 
failed to enchain that of her captor. Oh, Rose, it is death to 
think so. Did I dream that Mellichampe would slight me — 
did I think that he could turn from me with a weary spirit 
and an indifferent eye, I should pray to perish now — even 
now, when he speaks to and smiles upon me in such sort as 
never man spoke to and smiled upon woman whom he could 
deceive, or whom he did not love.” 

And her head sank upon the shoulder of her companion, 
and she sobbed with the fullness of her emotion, as if her heart 
were indeed breaking. 

It was long that day — long in her estimate, not less than 
in that of Mellichampe — before she paid her usual visit to the 
chamber of her lover. She was then compelled to listen to 
those reproaches from his lips which her own heart told her 
were justly uttered. Influenced more than she was willing to 
admit, even to herself, by the suggestions of Rose Duncan, she 
!iad purposely kept away until hour after hour had passed 
how drearily to both !) before she took courage to reject the 
idle restraints of conventional arrangement, which never yet 
had proper concern with the business of unsophisticated affec- 
tion. Gently he chid her with that neglect for which she 
could offer no sort of excuse ; but she hid her head in his 
bosom, and murmured forth the true cause of her delay, as she 
whispered, in scarce audible accents : — 

“ Ah, Ernest, you will tire of me at last ; you will only see 
too much of me ; and I am always so same, so like myself, and 
have so few changes by which to amuse you, that you will 
weary of the presence of your poor Janet.” 

“Foolish fears — foolish fears, Janet, and- too unjust to me, 
and too injurious to us both, to permit me to suffer them 
longer. It is because you are always the same, always so 
like yourself, that I love you so well. I am secure, in this 
proof, against your change. I am secure of your stability, and 


LOVE PASSAGES. 


289 


feel liappy to believe tliat, tlioiigb all things alter besides, yoii 
at least will be iiillexible in your continued love for me.” 

“Ah, be sure of that, Ernest; it is too sweet to love, and 
too dear to be loved by you, for me to change, lest I should 
find you change also. I can not change, I feel, until my \ ery 
heart shall decay. The seeds of love which have been sown 
within it were sown by your hands, and they acknowledge 
you only as the proper owner. Their blight can only follow 
the blight of the soil in which they are planted, or only perish 
through — ” 

She paused, and the tears flowed too freely to permit her 
to conclude the sentence. 

“Through what, Janet?” he demanded. In a murmuring 
and low tone she replied, instantly: — 

“ Only through the neglect of him who planted them.” 

He folded her to his heart, and she believed the deep, fond 
asseveration in which he assured her that no fear was more 
idle than that which she had just expressed. 

The shrill tones of the trumpet startled the lovers from their 
momentary bliss. • 

“That sound,” he said — “it makes my wound shoot with 
pain, as if the blood clamored there for escape. How I hate 
to hear its notes — sweet as they are to me when T am on 
horseback — here in this dungeon, and denied to move!” 

An involuntary sigh escaped the maiden as she listened to 
this language, and it came to her lips to say, though she spoke 
not : — 

“ But you are here with me, in this dungeon, Ernest, and with 
you I am never conscious of restraint or regret. Alas for me ! 
since I must feel that, while I have no other thouglit of pleas 
ure hut that which comes with your presence, Ernest, your 
pulse bounds and beats with the desire of a wider world, and 
of other c'>nquests, even when I, whom you so profess to love 
beyond all other objects, am here sitting by your side !” 

The sigh reached the ears of Mellichampe, and liis quick 
sense and conscious thought readily divined the cause of her 
emotion. 

“Wonder not, my Janet,” he exclaimed, as he caught her 

13 


290 


MELLTCHAMFE. 


to Ills bosom — “ wonder not that I cliafe at this restraint, even 
tliongb blessed with your sympathy and presence. Here, I 
am not less conscious of the tenure by which I bold your pres- 
ence and my own life, than of the thousand pleasures which 
your presence brings me. I love not the less because I pine 
to love in security; and feel not the less happy by your side 
because I long for the moment to arrive when no power can 
separate us. Now, are we not at the mercy of a wretch, whom 
we know to possess no scruples of conscience, and who feels 
few, if any, of the restraints of power? In his mood, at bis 
caprice, we may be torn asunder, and — but let us speak of 
other things.” 

And the conversation turned upon brighter topics. The 
uttered hopes and the wishes of MelHchampe cheered the 
heart of the maiden, until, even while the tears of a delicious 
sensibility were streaming from her eyes, she forgot that hope 
had its sorroM'^s ; she forgot that love — triumphant and impe- 
rial love — has still been ever known as the born victim of 
vicissitudes. 


GUILTY SCHEMES. 


291 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

GUILTY SCHEMES. 

Three days elapsed from the departure of Blonay with 
Colonel Tarleton before he returned to Piney Grove. Barsfield 
grew impatient. He had matured his plan in his mind ; he 
had devised the various processes for the accomplishment of 
his purpose, and he was feverish and restless until he could 
confer with his chief agent in the business. He came at last, 
and first brought intelligence to the tory of the failure of the 
Jegionary colonel to surprise the wary Marion. 

“ And where now is Colonel Tarleton?” demanded Barsfield. 

” Gone up after the * game cock.’ 

“I’m glad of it,” said the tory, involuntarily. “He might 
have been in our way. When did you separate from him ?” 

“ Day before yesterday : he went up the river. I went 
back into the swamp.” 

“And why? Had not the rebels left it? Did you not say 
that they crossed the river on the approach of Tarleton ?” 

“Yes — -but, adrat it! they crossed back mighty soon after 
Tarleton had gone out of sight.” 

“ And they are even now in the swamp again ?” 

“ Jist as they was at first.” 

“ The devil ! And you have seen them there since the 
departure of Tarleton ?” 

“ Reckon I has.” 

“ They are audacious, but we shall rout them soon. My 
loyalists are coming in rapidly, and I shall soon be able, I 

* Colonel Sumtei’ — so styled by Tarleton himself. This was no less the 
runtime de guerre of Sumter than was “ the swamp-fox” that of Maiion. Both 
names are singularly characteristic 


292 


MELIJCTTAMPE. 


trust, to employ yon again, and I liope with more success, in 
ferreting them out. But why did you delay so long to return? 
Have you seen your enemy?’* 

“ Adrat it, yes,** replied the other, coldly, though with some 
show of mortificjition. 

“Where — in the swamp?** 

“No; on the road here, jist afore dark last night ; a leetle 
more than long rifle shot from the front of the avenue.** 

“ Well ?** 

“ ’Tworn*t well. I tracked him over half a mile afore T 
could git a shot — ” 

The half-breed paused. 

“What then?’* demanded Barsfield, impatiently. 

“ Adrat it ! jist as I was guine to pull trigger, a pain, some- 
thing just like a hammer-strike, went into my elbow, and the 
bullet — ’twas a chawed one, too — must have gone fur enough 
from the skull ’twas aimed fur.** 

“ You missed him ?** inquired Barsfield. 

“ Reckon I did. He stuck to his critter jist as if nothing 
had happened strange to him, and rode off in a mighty hurry.*’ 

“ And how came you to miss him ? You hold yourself a 
good shot.” 

“ ’Tain*t often I miss ; but I felt all over, afore I pulled upon 
him, that I was guine to miss. Something seemed to tell me 
so. I was quite too quick, you see, and didn’t take time to 
think where I should lay my bullet.” 

“ Yet you may have hit him. These men of Marion some- 
times stick on for hours after they get the death Avound — long 
enough, certainly, to get ^way into* some d — d swamp or other, 
where there’s no getting at the carcass.” 

“ Adrat it — I’m fear’d I hain’t troubled him much. I felt 
as if I shouldn’t hit him. I was so consarned to hit him, you 
see, that my eye trimbled. But there’s no helping it now. 
There’s more chances yet.** 

“ You seek him every day ?** inquired Barsfield, curious to 
learn the habits of a wretch so peculiar in his nature. 

“And night, a*most everyday and night, when I reckon 
there’s a chance to find him.” 


GUILTY SCHEMES. 


293 


“But how do you calculate these chances 

“ I’ve got amost all his tracks. He’s a master of the scouts, 
and as I knows pretty much where they all keeps, I follows 
him when he goes the rounds.” 

“ Why, then, have you not succeeded better before ? Have 
you not frequently seen him before last night? — did you never 
get a shot till then ?” 

“ Yes, three times ; but then he had other sodgers with him, 
good shots, too, and rail swamp-suckers, sich as John Davis, 
who’s from Goose Creek, and can track a swamp-sucker jist 
as keen as myself. A single shot must be a sure shot, or ’taint 
a safe one. So we always says at Dorchester, and its reason, 
too. It wouldn’t be no use to shoot one, and be shot by two 
jist after. There wouldn’t be no sense in that.” 

“ No, but little ; and yet I shall probably have to take some 
risk of that sort with my enemy. Do you know Blonay, that 
I’m thinking to let Mellichampe run ?” 

“You ain’t, sartiii now, cappin ! Don’t you hate him 

“ Yes ! as bitterly as ever. You wonder that I should so 
determine toward my enemy. He is still such, and I am 
his, not less now than ever. But I have been thinking 
differently of the matter. I will meet him only like a man, 
and a man of honor. His life is in my hands ; I could have 
him murdered in his bed, but I will not. More than this, 
my word, as you know, will convict him as a spy upon rny 
camp, and this would hang him upon a public gallows in 
the streets of Charleston. I will even save him from this 
doom. I will save him, that we may meet when neither shall 
have any advantage other than that which his own skill, 
strength, and courage, shall impart. You sliAll help me. or 
rather help him, in this.” 

“ How?” was the very natural response of the half-breed. 

“ Assist him to escape. Hear me, if he does not escape 
before the week is out, I am commanded to conduct him to 
Charleston, to stand his trial as a spy, under charges which 
T myself must bring forward. He must be convicted, and 
must perish as I have said, unless he escapes from my cus- 
tody before. He is too young, and, I may add, too noble. 


294 


MKT.LTCHAMr’E. 


to die in so disgraceful a manner. Besides, that will be 
robbing me of my own revenge, which I now desire to take 
with my own hands.” 

The last suggestion was better understood by the Indian 
spirit of Blonay than all the rest. The tory captain proceed- 
ed — 

“ There are yet other reasons which prompt me to desire his 
escape, reasons which, though stronger than any of those given, 
it is not necessary, nor, indeed, would it be advisable, for me 
to disclose now. It is enough that I save him from a fate no 
less certain than degrading. You can not object to give your 
co-operation in saving the life which you were employed to 
take.” 

The half-breed did not refuse the new employment thus 
offered to his hands ; but his words were so reluctantly 
brought forth as clearly to imply a doubt as to whether the 
one service would be equally grateful with the other. 

“ How ?” exclaimed Barsfield ; “ would you rather destroy 
than save?” 

Adrat it, cappin, it’s easier to shoot a man than take a 
journey.” 

The tory captain paused for a moment, and surveyed 
closely the features of the savage. His own glance denoted 
no less of the fierce spirit which had dictated the answer 
of the latter, and gladly, at that moment, would he have 
sent the assassin forward to the chamber of his enemy, in 
order to the immediate fulfilment of the contemplated crime. 
But a more prudent, if not a better thought, determined him 
otherwise. He subdued, as well as he could, the rising emo- 
tion. He strove to speak calmly, and we may add, benevo- 
lently, and a less close observer of bad passions and bad men 
than Blonay might have been deceived by the assumed and 
hypocritical demeanor of Barsfield. 

“ No, no,' Mr. Blonay, it must not be. He is my enemy, but 
he is honorably such ; and as an honorable enemy, I am 
bound to meet him. I must take no advantage of circum- 
stances. He must have fair play, and I must trust then to 
good limbs, and wfat little skill I may have in my weapon. 


GUILTY SCHEMES. 


295 


to revenge ine in my wrongs upon liim. You, perliaps, do not 
compreliend tliis sort of generosity. Your way is to kill your 
enemy when you can, and in the most ready manner ; and, 
perhaps, if the mere feeling of hostility were alone to he 
considered, yours would be as proper a mode as any other. 
But men who rank high in society must be regulated by its 
notions. To gratify a feeling is not so important as to gratify 
it after a particular fashion. We kill an enemy for our own 
satisfaction ; but our seconds have a taste to be consulted, and 
they provide the weapons, and say when and how we shall 
strike, and stand by to share the sport.” 

“ Adrat it, but there’s no need of them. A dark wood, close 
on the edge of the swamp, where you can roll the carrion in 
the bog, and that’s all one wants for his enemy after the bul- 
let’s once gone through his head.” 

“So you think, and so, .perhaps, you may think rightly ; 
but I move in a different world from you, and am coTn])elled 
to think differently. I can not revenge myself after your 
fashion. I must give my enemy a chance for a fair fight. 1 
must devise a j^lan for his escape from the guards, and in that, 
Blonay, I require your assistance.” 

“ Adrat it, cappin, if so be all you want is to let the fellow 
off, why don’t you let him run without any fuss. You don’t 
want my help for that. He’ll promise to meet you, I reckon, 
in any old field, and then you can settle your concern without 
more trouble.” 

“ What ! and be trussed up by CornAvallis or Tarleton a 
moment after, as a traitor, upon the highest tree ! You seem 
to forget, Mr. Blonay, that, in doing as you now advise, I must 
be guilty of a breach of trust, and a disobedience of orders, 
which are rem*arkably positive and strict. Your counsel is 
scarcely agreeable, Blonay, and anything but wise.” 

“Adrat it, cappin, won’t it be a breach of trust, any how 
supposing the chap gits off from prison by my help ?” 

“Not if I can ‘show to my superior that I maintained a 
proper guard over him, and used every effort for his recapture.” 

“But how can he git off if you does that?” inquired the 
seemingly dull Blonay. 


296 


MELLTCTTAMPE. 


“ I will not do so. I will not maintain a proper guard. I 
will give you certain opportunities, which shall he known only 
to yourself, and, at the same time, I shall keep up an appear- 
ance of the utmost watchfulness ; so that whatever blame may 
attach to the proceeding, will fall full, not upon my head, hut 
the sentinel’s.” 

“ Adrat it, cappin, I suppose it’s all right, as you say. I 
can’t say myself. I don’t see, but should like to hear, cappin, 
what all’s to be done.” 

“ Hear me ; the prisoner must be taught that you are his 
friend, willing, for certain reasons, and for good rewards, to ex- 
tricate him from his predicament.” 

“ Yes, but how is he to know that? You wouldn’t let any 
body to see him, nobody but the doctor and the young lady.” 

“ True ; but it is through the young lady herself that the 
matter is to be executed — ” 

“ I won’t do nothin’ to hurt the gal, cappin,” exclaimed Blo- 
nay, quickly and decisively. 

“ Fool ! I ask no service from you which can possibly do 
her harm. Be not so hasty in your opinions, but hear me out. 
It is through, her that you are to act on him. She has distin- 
guished you with some indulgences — she sent you your break- 
fast this morning — ” 

“ She’s a mighty good gal !” said the other, meditatively, 
and interrupting the now deeply-excited and powerfully-inter- 
ested Barsfield. 

“ She is,” said the tory, in a tone artfully conciliatory ; “ she 
is, and it will both serve and please her to extricate this youth 
from the difficulties which surround him. He is an object of 
no small importance in her sight.” 

“ The gal loves him,” still meditatively said* the other. 

“ Yes, and you now have an excellent opportunity to offer 
her your service without being suspected of any wrong. You 
are to seek her, and tell her what you have heard respecting 
the prisoner. Say that he is to be sent tb town to stand his 
trial; that there is no doubt that he will be convicted if he 
goes, and that his execution will follow as certainly as soon. 
You can then pledge yourself to save him — to get him out of 


GUILTY SCHEMES. 


297 


the camp — to place liim safely in the neighboring woods, be- 
yond my reach and my pursuit. She will, no doubt, close with 
your offer and by this act you will serve me quite as much as 
the prisoner and herself.” 

To this plan Blonay started sundry little objections, for all 
of which the tory had duly provided himself with overruling 
answers. The half-breed, simply enough, denianded why 
Barsfield, proposing, as he did, to render so great a service to 
the prisoner, should scruple to say to him and to the young 
lady who watched — both sufficiently interested to keep his 
secret — what he now so freely said to him ? This was soon 
answered. 

“They will suspect me of a design to involve the prisoner 
in some new difficulty, as they have no reason to suppose me 
desirous of serving either. I have no motive to befriend him 
— none. But, on the contrary, they know me as his enemy, 
and believe the worst of me accordingly. You only know why 
I propose this scheme.” 

The half-breed was silenced, though not convinced. Suspi- 
cious by nature and education, he began to conjecture other 
purposes as prevailing in the mind of his employer ; but, for 
the time, he promised to prepare himself, and to comply witli 
his various requisitions. It was not until he reached the woods, 
and resumed his position against his tree, that the true policy 
of the tory captain came out before his mind. 

13 « 


298 


MliLLTCHAMPK. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE SUBTLETY OF THE TORY. 

What were the designs of the tory 1 “ What bloody scene 

had Roscius now to act?” Could it he that Barsfield was 
really prompted by a new emotion of generous hostility 1 
Had his feelings undergone a change, and did he reallj’ feel 
an honorable desire, and meditate to save his rival Mclli- 
champe from an ignominious death, only for the self-satisfying 
vengeance which he promised to himself from the employment 
of his own weapon ? No : these were not the thoughts, not 
the purposes, of the malignant tory. 

The half-breed was not deceived by the gracious and strange 
shows of new-born benevolence which appeared to prompt him. 
Had the death of Mellichampe been certain, as the result of liis 
threatened trial, Barsfield would have been content to haA c 
obeyed his orders, and to carry the victim to Charleston for 
trial and execution. But that fate was not certain. He felt 
assured, too, that it was not even probable. Cornwallis and 
Tarleton, both, had shed more blood wantonly already than 
they could well account or atone for to public indignation. 
The British house of commons already began to declaim upon 
the wanton and brutal excesses which popular indignation had 
ascribed to the British commanders in America j and the otfi 
cers of the southern invading armies now half repented of tlie 
crimes which, in the moment of exasperation, they had been 
tempted to commit upon those who, as they were familiarly 
styled rebels, seemed consequently to have been excluded 
hitherto from the consideration due to men. There was a 
pause in that sanguinary mood which had heretofore stimu- 
lated Cornwallis, Rav don, Tarleton, Balfour, and a dozen 


THE subtlh:ty of the tory. 


299 


oilier petty tyrants of tlie time and country, to tlie most atro- 
cious offences against justice and liumanity. They began to 
feel> if not the salutary rebukings of conscience, the more 
obvious suggestions of fear; for, exasperated to madness by 
the reckless want of consideration shown to their brethren-in- 
arms when becoming captives to the foe, the officers of the 
southern American forces, banded and scattered, pledged them- 
selves solemnly in writing to retaliate in like manner, man foi 
man, upon such British officers as should fall into their hands ; 
thus voluntarily offering themselves to a liabilitj^ the heavy 
responsibilities of which sufficiently guarantied their sincerity. 
To the adoption of this course bhey also required a like pledge 
from the commander-in-chief ; and General Greene was com- 
pelled to acquiesce in their requisition. The earnest charac- 
ter of these proceedings, known as they were to the enemy, had 
its effect ; and the rebukes of conscience were more respected 
when coupled with the suggestions of fear. 

Barsfield knew that the present temper of his superiors was 
not favorable to the execution of Mellichampe. He also felt 
that his own testimony against the youth must be unsatisfac- 
tory, if met by that of Mr. Berkeley and his daughter. He 
dreaded that Mellichampe should reach Charleston, thougli as 
a prisoner, and become known in person to any of the existing 
powers, as he well knew the uncertain tenure by which the 
possessions were secured which had been allotted to him, in a 
moment of especial favor, by the capricious generosity of the 
British commander. Guilt, in this way, for ever anticipates 
and fears the thousand influences which it raises up against 
itself; and never ceases to labor in providing against events, 
which for a long time it may baffle, but which, in the moment 
of greatest security, must concentrate themselves against all 
its feeble barriers, and overthrow them with a breath. 

Barsfield had also his personal hostility to gratify, and of 
this he might be deprived if his prisoner reached the city 
in safety. His present design was deeply laid, therefore, in 
order that he might not be defrauded. Janet Berkeley was 
to be the instrument by which Mellichampe was to be taught 
to apprehend for his life, as a convicted spy under a military 


300 


MELLIOHAMPE. 


sentence. The ignominious nature of such a doom would, he 
was well aware, prompt the youth to seize upon any and 
every chance to escape from custody. This opportunity was 
to he given him, in part. The guards were to be so placed as, 
at the given moment, to leave the passage from his chamber 
free. The road was to be cleared for him at a designated 
point, and this road, under the guidance of Blonay, the youth 
was to pursue. 

But it was no part of Barsfield’s design to suffer his escape. 
An ambush was to be laid for the reception of the fugitive, 
and here the escaping prisoner was to be shot down without a 
question ; and, as he was an eTscaping prisoner, such a fate, 
Barsfield well knew, might be inflicted with the most perfect 
impunity. The cruel scheme was closely treasured in his mind, 
and only such portions of his plan as might seem noble with- 
out the rest were permitted to appear to the obtuse sense of 
the half-breed, who was destined to perish at the same mo- 
ment with the prisoner he was employed to set free. 

Long and closely did the two debate together on the par- 
ticular steps to be taken for carrying the scheme of the tory 
into execution; and it was arranged that, while he, Barsfield, 
should, in the progress of the same day, apprise Janet of the 
contemplated removal of Mellichampe to the city for his trial, 
Blonay should mature his plan for approaching the maiden on 
a subject in which, to succeed at all, it was necessary that the 
utmost delicacy of address should be observed. The half- 
breed was to assume a new character. He was to appear 
before her with an avowal of sympathy which seemed rather 
a mockery, coming from one so incapable and low. He was 
to make a profession of regard for her, and for him whom she 
regarded, and thus obtain her confidence, without which ho 
could do nothing. Barsfield did not believe it possible for 
such a creature to feel, and his only fear was that the task 
would be too novel and too difficult for him to perform de 
cently and with success.. But the tory was mistaken in his 
man He did not sufficiently dive into the nature of the seem- 
ingly obdurate wretch before him ; and he had not the most 
distam idea of the occult and mysterious causes of sympathy 


THE SUBTLETY OF THE TORY. 


301 


for tlie maiden wliieli were at work in the breast of the savage, 
whom he loathed even while emplo;yiiig, and for whom he 
meditated the sanie doom of death, at the same time, whicli 
his hands were preparing for Mellichampe. 

But Blonay saw through his intentions; and, confident that 
the plan was designed for the murder of Mellichampe, he 
suspected, at the same time, the design upon himself. 

“ He wonH want me after that,’* he muttered to himself, as 
soon as he got into the woods ; and he chuckled strangely and 
bitterly as he thought over the ‘affair. In the woods he could 
think freely, and he soon conceived the entire plan of his 
employer. He determined accordingly. He was a tactician, 
and knew how much was to be made out of the opinion enter- 
tained by Barsfield of his stolidity. He was an adept at that 
art which governs men by sometimes adopting, seeminglj", 
their own standards of judgment. 

He went instantly back to the tory, and, drawing from his 
purse the sum of five guineas which the other had given while 
engaging him, he spoke thus, while returning it: — 

“I reckon, cappin, you’d better git somebody else to do 
your business for you in this ’ere matter. I can’t. 

“Can’t! why?” responded Barsfield, in astonishment. 

“Well, you see, cappin — I’ve been thinking over the busi- 
ness, and, you see, I can’t see it to the bottom. I don’t 
understand it.” 

“And what then ? Why should you understand it? You 
have only to do what is told you. I understand it, and that’s 
enough, I imagine.” 

“ I reckon not, cappin — axing your pardon. I never med- 
dles with business I don’t understand. If so be you says, ‘Go 
to the chap’s room, and put your knife in him,’ I’ll do that for 
the money ; but I can’t think of the other business. I don’t 
see to the bottom — it’s all up and down, and quite a confusion 
to me.” 

The proposal to murder Mellichampe off-hand for the five 
guineas would have been accepted instantly, were it the policy 
of Barsfield to have it done after that fashion; but he dared 
not close with the tempting offer. The willingness of Blonay, 


302 


MELTJCHAMPE. 


liowever, to commit tlie act, had tlie efiPect upon Barsfield'a 
mind which the half-breed desired. It induced a degree of 
confidence in him which the toiy was previously disposed to 
withhold. He now sought to test his agent a little more 
closely. 

“ And you will go now to his room and put him to death for 
the same money V* 

“ Say the word, cappin,” was the ready response, uttered 
with the composure of one whose mind is made up to the per- 
formance of the deed. The tofy paused — he dared not comply. 

“ And why not help in getting him clear? Where’s the dif- 
ference ?” 

“’Cause I can’t see what you want to clear him for, when 
you want to kill him, and when you knows he’s guine to he 
hung. I can’t see.” 

“Never mind; it is my desire — is not that enough? I 
choose it — it is my notion. I will pay you for my notion. 
Do what I have said — here are five guineas more. Go to Miss 
Berkeley, and tell her what I have taught you.” 

The half-breed hesitated, or seemed to hesitate. The bright 
gold glittered in his eye, and he was not accustomed to with- 
stand temptation. His habit almost overcame his reflection, 
and the determined conviction of his mind ; but he resisted the 
suggestion and adhered to his resolve. 

“ I’d rather not, cappin ; I reckon I can’t. If you says now 
that you wants to kill him. I’ll help you, ’cause then I under- 
stands you ; but to git him out, and let him run free, jist when 
there’s no need for it, and when you hates him all over, is too 
strange to me — I can’t see to the bottom.” 

“ And you will not do as you have said ?” demanded the 
other, with some vexation in his tone and countenance. 

“Well, now, cappin, M^hy not speak out the plain thing as 
it is,” said the half-breed, boldly ; “ don’t I see how ’tis ? 
When you gits him out, you’ll put it to him — that’s what I 
understands. If it’s so, say so, and I’ll go the death for you , 
but I a’n’t guine to sarve a man that won’t let me know the 
business I’m guine upon. Let me see your hand, and I’ll say 
if I back you.” 


THE SUBTLKCY OF THE TORY. 


303 


This was hiingiiig the matter home, and Barsfield at once 
saw that there was no hope for the aid of the half-breed but in 
full confidence. He made a merit of necessity. 

“ I have only sought to try you. I wished to know how far 
you were willing and sagacious enough to serve me. I am sat- 
isfied. You are right. The boy shall not escape me, though 
I let him run. You hear me — can I now depend on you?” 

“ It’s a bargain, cappin,” and the savage received the guineas, 
which were soon put out of sight, “ it’s a bargain : say how, 
when, and where, and there’s no more fuss.” 

They closed hands upon the contract, and Barsfield How 
unfolded his designs with more confidence. It was arranged 
that Blonay should carry out the original plan, so far as to 
communicating with Janet. Her acquiescence following, Mel- 
lichampe was to be led, at a particular hour, on a specified 
night, through a path in which the myrmidons of the tory were 
to stand prepared; and nothing now remained — so Baisfield 
thought — in the way of his successful effort at revenge, but to 
obtain the ministry of the devoted maiden in promoting the 
scheme which was to terminate in the murder of her lover. 

Barsfield, in the part prosecution of his design, that very 
evening sought a private conference with Janet Berkeley 
w'hich was not denied him. 

What!” exclaimed Rose Duncan, as she heard of the ap- 
plication and of her cousin’s compliance, “ what ! you consent 
— you will see him alone? Surely, Janet, you will not?” 

“ Why not. Rose ?” was the quiet answer. 

“ Why not ! — and you hate him so, Janet?” 

“You mistake me, Rose. I fear Mr. Barsfield — I dread 
what he may do; but, believe me, I do not hate him. I 
should not fear him even, did I not know that he hates those 
whom I love.” 

“ But, whether you hate or fear, why should you see him ? 
What can he seek you for but to make his sickening protesta 
tions and professions over and over again ? and I don’t see 
that civility requires that you should hear him over and over 
again, upon such a subject, whenever he takes it into his head 
to address you.” 


304 


MELLICIIAMPK. 


will be time enoiigli to rleclfire my aversion, Rose, wlien 
I know that such is his subject. To anticipate now would be 
not only premature, but in very doubtful propriety, and surely 
in a taste somewhat indelicate. Such, indeed, can scarcely 
be the subject on which he would speak with me, for I have 
already answered him so decisively that he must know it to 
be idle.” 

“ Ah, but these men never take an answer : they are perti- 
nacious to the last degree; and they all assume, with a mon- 
strous self-complaisance, that a woman does not mean ‘no’ 
Avhen she says it. Be assured Barsfield will have little else to 
say.’ His speech will be all about hearts and darts, and hopes 
and fears, and all such silly stuff as your sentimentalists deal 
in. He will tell you about Kaddipah, and promise to make 
you its queen, and you will tire to death of the struggles of 
the great bear in an element so foreign to his nature as that 
of love.” 

And, while she spoke, the lively girl put herself in posture, 
and adopted the grin and the grimace, the desperate action 
and affected enthusiasm, which might be supposed to belong 
to the address of Barsfield in the part of a lover. Janet smiled 
sorrowfully as she replied — 

“ Ah, Rose, I would the matter upon which Barsfield seeks 
me were not more serious than your thoughts assume it to be 
But I can not think with you. I am troubled with a present! 
ment of evil ; I fear me that some new mischief is designed.” 

“Oh, you are always anticipating evil; you are always on 
the look-out for clouds and storm.” 

“ I do not shrink from them, Rose, when, they come,” said 
the other, gently. 

“ No, no ! you are brave enough : would I were half so 
valiant, sweet cousin of mine! But, Janet, if you dread that 
Barsfield has some new mischief afoot, that is another reason 
why you should not see him. Be advised, dear Janet, and do 
not go.” 

“ I must, Rose, and I will, for that very reason, I will look 
the danger in the face; I will not blind myself to its coming. 
No! let the bolt be shot — let the wo come — let the wor.st 


THE SUBTLE'nr OF TEE TORT. 


305 


liappen, rather than that I shonht for ever rlream, and for ever 
dread, the worst. Suffering is one part of life — it may be the 
greatest part of mine. I must not shrink from what I was 
designed to meet ; and God give me strength to meet it as 1 
should, and cheer me to bear up against it with a calm forti 
tude. I feel that this man is the bringer of evil tidings : I am 
impressed with a fear which almost persuades me to refuse 
liim this meeting. But, as T know this feeling to be a fear, 
and at variance with my duty to myself not less than to Melli- 
champe, I will not refuse him, I will go ; I will hear what he 
would say.’^ 

And here I must remain, stuck up like a painted Image, to 
listen to Lieutenant Clayton’s rose-water compliments. Tlie 
man is so bandboxy, so excruciatingly tidy and trim in every- 
thing he says, so measured and musical, and laughs with such 
continual desperation, that he sickens me to death to enter- 
tain him.” 

“ Yet yoif do entertain him. Rose.” 

“ How can I help it? You will not; and the man looks as 
if he came for an entertainment.” 

“And you never disappoint him. Rose.” 

“ ’Twould be too cruel, that, Janet; for you neither look 
nor say anything toward it. You might as well be the old 
Dutch Venus, stuck up in the corner, whose fat cheeks and 
small eyes used to give your grandfather such an extensive 
subject for eulogy. You leave all the task of keeping up the 
racket, and should not wonder if I seek, as well as in me lies, 
to maintain your guests in good humor with themselves, at 
least.” 

“ And with you. You certainly succeed. Rose, in both ob- 
jects. Task or not, you are not displeased with the labor of 
entertaining Lieutenant Clayton, if I judge not very erro- 
neously of your eyes and features generally. And then your 
laugh, too. Rose — don’t speak of the lieutenant’s — your laugh 
is, of all laughs, the most truly natural when you hearken to 
his good sayings.” 

“Janet, you are getting to be quite censorious. I am 
shocked at you. Really, you ought to know, that to entertain 


306 


MELLICIIAMPK. 


a body, if you set out wrtli that intention, you a. e not to allow 
it to be seen that you are making an effort. To please others, 
the first rule is always to seem pleased yourself.” 

“ True ; you not only seem pleased yourself, but, Rose, do 
you know I really think you are so ? You laugh as — ” 

“Pshaw! Janet — pshaw! I laugh, at the man, and not 
with him.” 

“ I fear me, now I think of it. Rose, that he has discovered 
that. Methinks he laughs much less of late than ever : he 
looks very serious at times.” 

“ Do you really think so, Janet 

“ I do, really.” 

“ What can be the cause, I wonder?” 

“Perhaps he has been ordered to join Cornwallis. He 
spoke of some such matter, you remember, but a week ago.” 

“Yes, I remember; and at the time, if you recollect, Janet, 
he looked rather grave while stating it, though he laughed 
afterward ; and yet the laugh did not seem altogether so 
natural ; there was something exceedingly constrained and 
artificial in it.” 

“ It must be so,” replied Janet, as it were abstractedly. 
The momentary humor which had prompted her to annoy her 
thoughtless companion had passed away, in the sterner consid- 
eration which belonged to her own difficulties. She turned 
away to a neighboring window, and looked fortli 'upon the 
grove, and a little beyond, where, on the edge of the forest, 
lay the encampment of Barsfield, a glance at which involun- 
tarily drove her away from the window. When her eyes were 
again turned, upon Rose Duncan, she saw that the usually 
light-hearted girl was still seated, in unwonted silence, with 
her face buried in her hands. The whole air of the damsel 
was full of unusual thought and abstraction, and Janet might 
have seen that a change had come over the spirit of her dream 
also, but that her fancy was saddened by the strong and 
besetting fears which promised her a new form of trial in the 
meeting with the tory. 


PICrURK OF LYNCIi-LAW. 


307 


CHAPTER XXXVIl. 

PICTURE OP LYNCH-LAW. 

That evening, as she had promised, Janet Berkeley in- 
dulged Captain Barsfield with the interview which he desired ; 
and while Rose Duncan was left to the task, pleasant or other- 
wise, of entertaining the sentimental yet laughter-loving lieu- 
tenant, the graver maiden, in an adjoining apartment, was 
held to the severer trial of maintaining the uniform complai- 
sance of the lady and the courteous consideration of the hostess, 
while listening to one whose every movement she distrusted, 
and whose whole bearing toward her and hers had been posi- 
tively injurious, if not always hostile. Barsfield, too, though 
moved by contradictory feelings, was compelled to subject 
them all beneath the easy deportment and conciliatory de- 
meanor of a gentleman in the presence of one of the other sex. 
He rose to meet her upon her entrance, and conducted her to 
a chair. A few moments elapsed before he spoke, and his 
words were then brought forth with the difficulty of one who is 
somewhat at a loss where to begin. At length, as if ashamed 
of his weakness, he commenced without preliminaries upon 
the immediate subject which had prompted the desire for the 
interview. 

“My surgeon tells me, Miss Berkeley, that his patient — 
yours, I should rather say — Mr. Mellichampe, will soon be 
able to undergo removal.” 

“Removal, sir!” was the momentary exclamation of Janet, 
with a show of pain, not less than of surprise, in her ingenuous 
countenance. 

“ My orders are to remove him to the city, as soon as the 
surgeon shall pronounce him in a fit condition to bear with the 


30 $ 


MELLIOHAMPR. 


fatigue. He tells me that such will soon be the case. Mr 
Mellichampe now walks his chamber, I understand, and is in 
every respect, rapidly recovering from his hurts.” 

“ He is certainly better than he was, Captain Barsfield ; but 
he is yet very, very feeble — too feeble quite to bear with the 
fatigues of such a journey.” 

“ You underrate the strength of the young gentleman. Miss 
Berkeley. He is a well-knit, hardy soldier for one so youth- 
ful, and will suffer less than you imagine. I trust that my 
surgeon does not report incorrectly, when he states that in all 
probability it will be quite safe to remove him at the com- 
mencement of the ensuing week.” 

“ So soon !” was the unaffected, the almost unconscious 
exclamation. 

“ It is painful to me to deprive you. Miss Berkeley, of any 
pleasure — of one, too, the loss of which, even in anticipation, 
seems to convey so much anxiety and sorrow ; but the duties 
of the soldier are imperative.” 

“ I would not wish, sir, to interfere with yours, whatever my 
own wishes may be. Captain Barsfield,” replied the maiden, 
with a degree of dignity which seemed provoked into loftiness 
by the air of sarcasm pervading the previous speech of the 
tory. 

“ It is for you, sir,” she continued, “ to do your duty, if you 
so esteem it, without reference to the weaknesses of a woman, 
and, least of all, of mine.” 

“You mistake, Miss Berkeley — you mistake your own 
worth, not less than my feelings and present objects. Your 
weaknesses, if it so pleases you to call them, are sacred in my 
sight ; and, though my duty as a soldier prompts me to take 
the course with the prisoner which I have already made 
known to you, such is my regard to your wishes, and for you, 
that I am not unwilling, in some particulars, to depart from 
that course with the desire to oblige you.” 

The maiden looked up inquiringly. 

“How am I to understand this. Captain Barsfield 

“ Oh, Miss Berkeley, there needs no* long explanation. If 
Mellichampe has loved you, you have been no'less beloyed by 


PICTURE OF LYNOU-LAW. 


309 


me. I can not now deceive myself on the subject of your re- 
gards. I am not so self-blinded as to mistake your feelings 
for him.*’ 

‘‘Nor I to deny them, Mr. Barsfield. There was a time, sir, 
when I should have shrunk, as from death, from such an avowal 
as this. It is now my pride, my boast — now that he is desert- 
ed by friends, and in the hands of enemies — ” 

“ In your hands. Miss Berkeley,” he said, interrupting her. 

“ How, sir ?” 

“ In no other hands than yours. Let me show you this. 
He is not in the hands of enemies, only as you so decree it.” 

“ Proceed, sir, proceed,” she said, impatiently, seeing that 
he paused in his utterance. 

“ A few words from you. Miss Berkeley, and, such is your 
power over me, such my regard for you, that, though Melli- 
champe be my deadly enemy — one who has sought my life, 
and one whose life my own sense of self-preservation prompts 
me with like perseverance equally to seek, I am yet willing, 
in the face of my pledges, my interest, my duty, to connive at 
his release from this most unpleasant custody. I am willing 
to place the key of his prison-door in your hands, and to give 
the signal myself when he shall fly in safety.” 

“ You speak fairly, sir, very fairly, very nobly, indeed, if 
you have spoken all that you design, all that you mean. But 
is it your regard for me alone that prompts these sentiments 
— are there no conditions which you deem of value to your- 
self? Let me hear all — all that you have in reserve. Captain 
Barsfield, for you will pardon me if, hitherto, I have not es- 
teemed you one to forfeit your pledges, your interests, your 
duty, to serve, without conditions, a poor maiden like myself.” 

The cheek of the tory grew to a deep crimson as he spoke, 
and his words were crowded and uttered chokingly when he 
replied: — 

“I am not now to learn for the first time, that, influenced 
as she has been by the speech of others, unfriendly and ma- 
lignant, the opinions of Miss Berkeley have done me at all 
times less than justice. The words of old Max Mellichampe, 
the father of tins boy, were thus hostile ever : and they have 


MELLTCHAMPK. 


SIO 

not been poured into unwilling ears, liaving you for an auditor, 
Miss Berkeley. And yet I had thought tl)at one so gentle as 
yourself would have shrunk from the language of hatred and 
denunciation, and been the last so keenly to treasure up its 
remembrance.” 

“ Can Captain Barsfield wonder that I should remember the 
opinions of Colonel Mellichampe with reference to himself, 
when after-circumstances have so completely confirmed their 
justice? Is not Captain Barsfield an active and bloody enemy 
to the people of his own land — fighting against them under 
the banner of the invader — and proving himself most bloody 
and hostile to those with whom he once dwelt, and by whose 
indulgence, as I have heard, his own infancy was nurtured ? 
Can I forget, too, that by his own hands the brave old colonel 
perished in a most unequal fight?” • 

“ But still a fair one, Miss Berkeley — still a fair fight, and 
one of his own seeking. But what you have just said, Miss 
Berkeley, gives me a good occasion to set you right on some 
matters, and to unfold to you the truth in all. The taking- 
arms under the flag of England, which you style that of the 
invader, and the death of Colonel Max Mellichampe, form but 
a single page of the same drama. They are as closely related. 
Miss Berkeley, as cause and effect, since it was Max Melli- 
champe that made me — why should I blush to say it ? — a tory, 
in arms against my countrymen : and to that enrolment — 
fatal enrolment ! for even now I curse the day on which it was 
recorded, and him no less that moved it — he owes, and justly 
owes, his own defeat and death.” 

“ I believe it not, sir. Colonel Mellichampe move-you to 
become a tory — to lift the sword against your people ? Never 
— never !” 

“ Hear me out, and you will believe — you can not else. Ho 
did not move me — did not argue with me to become a tory, 
oh, no ! He forced me to become one. Would you hear ?” 

“ Speak on.” 

“When this cruel and unnatural war commenced in South 
Carolina, I had taken no part on either side. The violence 
of the whigs around me. Colonel Mellichampe among them. 


PICTURE OF LYNCll-LAW. 


311 


and the most active among them, to^vard all those not think- 
ing with themselves, revolted my feelings and my })riQe, if it 
did not offend my principles. I was indignant that, while in- 
sisting upon all the rights of free judgment' for themselvec;, 
they should at the same time deny a like liberty to others. 
And yet they raved constantly of liberty. It Avas, in their 
mouths, a perpetual word, and with them it signified every tiling 
and nothing. It was to give them a free charter for any and 
every practice, and it was to deprive all others of every riglit, 
natural and acquired. I dared to disagree — I dared to think 
differently, and to speak my opinions aloud, though I lifted no 
weapon, as yet, to sustain them. Was I then a criminal. Miss 
Berkeley? Was it toryism to think according to my under- 
standing, and to speak the opinions which I honestly enter- 
tained ? Do me justice and say, so far I had transgressed no 
law, either of morals or of the land.” 

Do not appeal to me, Captain Barsfield ; I am hut a poor 
judge of such matters.” 

“ If you have not judged, Miss Berkeley, you, at least, have 
sentenced upon the authority of others; and it is your sentence, 
and their authority, that I seek uoav to overtlirow.” 

“Go on, sir; I would not do you injustice, and I would re- 
joice to think that you could relieve yourself from the unfa- 
vorable opinions even of one so humble as myself. But I fear 
me you Avill fail, sir.” 

“ I hope not, at least. Miss Berkeley ; and the fear that you 
have uttered encourages and strengthens my ho])e. I now 
proceed with my narrative. I had, as T have told yon, my 
oAvn opinions, and this was presumption in the eyes of a dicta- 
torial, proud man, like Max Mellichampe. I uttered them, and 
loudly too, and this was the error of one so weak, so wanting 
in public influence and wealth as myself. Would you hear 
how this monstrous error was punished ? this part of the story, 
perhaps, has never reached your ears.” 

“Punished, sir!” replied the maiden, with some show of as- 
tonishment in her countenance, “what punishment? I had 
not heard of any punishment.” 

“ I thought not, the punishment was too light — too trivial — 


312 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


too utterly disproportioned to the offence, to make a part of 
the narrative. But I was punished, Miss Berkeley, and, for a 
crime so monstrous as that of thinking differently from my 
neighbor, even you will doubtlessly conceive the penalty a 
slight one.” 

' He paused ; bitter emotions seemed to gather in his bosom, 
and he turned away hastily, and strode to the opposite end of 
the room. In another moment he returned. 

“ You have heard of my offence — you should know how it 
was dealt with — not by strangers, not by enemies — but by 
tliose with whom I had lived — by whose indulgence I had 
been nurtured. Would you hear. Miss Berkeley ?” 

“ Go on, sir.” 

“Hear me then. My neighbors came to me at midnight — 
not as neighbors, but armed, and painted, and howling — at 
midnight. They broke into my dwelling — a small exercise 
of their newly-gotten liberty j they tore me from the bed where 
I was sleeping; they dragged me into the highway, amid a 
crowd of my brethren — my countrymen — all cheering, and 
most of them assisting in the work of punishment.” 

“ They surely did not this 1” was her exclamation. 

“ They surely, did ! but this was not all. An offence so hor- 
rible as mine, free thinking ii» a free country, was yet to have 
its punishment. What was that punishment, do you think, 
Miss Berkeley V* 

His eyes glared upon her with a ghastly stare as he put this 
question, from which her own shrank involuntarily as she replied, 

“ I can not think — I know not.” 

“They bound me to a tree — fast — immovable. I could 
only see their proceedings, I could only endure their tortures 
— I could stir neither hand not foot to resist them — ” 

He shivered, as with a convulsion, while recalling these 
memories, though the sympathizing and pitying expression of 
her face brought, a moment after, a smile into his own. He 
continued — . 

“ There, bound hand and foot, a victim, at their mercy, and 
hopeless of any plea, and incapable of any effort to avoid 
their judgment, I bore its torhu es. You will ask, what more ?” 


PICTURE OF LYNOfl-LAW. 


• 813 


He paused, but slie spoke not,^ and he went on almost in- 
stantly, 

“ The lash, the scourge, rods from the neighboring woods 
were brought, and I suflfered until I fainted under their 
blows.” 

She clasped her hands, and closed her eyes, as if the horri- 
ble spectacle were before her. 

“ I came to life to suffer new tortures. They poured the 
seething tar over me — ” 

“Horrible! horrible!” 

“ Then, hurrying me to the neighboring river, your own 
Santee, they plunged me into its bosom, and more than once, 
more merciful than the waters, which did not ingulf me, they 
thrust me back into their depths, when with feeble struggles I 
had gained the banks. I was saved by one, one more tender 
than the rest, and left at midnight, exhausted, by the river’s 
side; despairing of life and imploring death, which yet came 
not to my relief.” 

“ Dreadful, dreadful !” exclaimed the maiden, with emotions 
of uncontrolled horror, while her ghastly cheeks and streaming 
eyes attested the deep pain which the cruel narrative had im- 
parted to her soul. 

Quivering in every limb with the agonizing recollection 
which his own horrible nan-ative had awakened in his mind, 
Barsfield strode the floor to and fro, his hands clinched in his 
hair, and his ej’^es almost starting from their sockets. . 

In another moment Janet, recovering herself, with something 
of desperation in her manner, hurried and breathless, thus ad- 
dressed him — 

“ But the father of Ernest Mellichampe, he was not one of 
these men ? he had no part in this dreadful crime 1 You have 
not said that, Mr. Barsfield ?” 

“ No !” was his bitter and almost fierce exclamation. 

“Thank God! thank God!” she exclaimed, breathlessly. 
He rapidly crossed the floor, he approached her, and his finger 
rested upon her arm — 

“ Stay !” he exclaimed, “ be not too fast. The father of 
your — of Ernwat Mellichampe, did^ indeed, lift no hand — he 

14 


314 • 


MELLICHAMPE. 


was not even present on tlie occasion, but be was not tbe less 
guilty, tbe deed was not tbe less executed by him.” 

“ How ! speak !” 

“ He was tbe most guilty. Tbe mere instruments of tbe 
crime — tbe miserable, and bowling, and servile wretches, who 
would bave maimed and mangled a creature formed in tbeir 
own, not less than in tbe image of God, were not tbe criminals •, 
but be wbo set them on, be whose daily language was that of 
malignant scorn and hostility, be was its author, be was the 
doer of tbe deed, and to him I looked for vengeance.” 

But bow know you that be set them on ? Did y^ou bear ?” 
' “ Ob, Miss Berkeley, I say not that be told them, ‘ Go, now, 
and do this deed ;* I know not that be did ; but bad not Max 
Mellicbampe pronounced me deserving of Lynching, bad be 
not said that I was a tory, and that tar and feathers were tbe 
proper desert of tbe tory, bad be not approved of those tor- 
tures, and of others which degrade humanity, tbe torture of 
tbe rail, tbe suffocation of tbe horse-pond, would these 
wretches, think you, wbo take tbeir color and tbeir thoughts 
always from tbe superior, would they bave been prompted, by^ 
tbeir own thoughts, to such a crime ? No ! they were prompted 
by him. He approved tbe deed, be smiled upon its atrocities, 
and be perished in consequence. Hence my bate to him and 
his, and it is tbe hatred of justice which pursues even to tbe 
tbird and fourth generations; for crimes and tbeir penalties, 
like diseases, are entailed to son and to son’s son, all guilty, 
and all doomed, alike. Hence it is, that I am a toiy. Hence 
it is, that I lift tbe sword, unsparingly to tbe last, against tbe 
wretches wbo taught me in that night of terror, of blistering 
agony, of manhood’s shame, and a suffering worse infinitely 
than death, of what nature was that boon of liberty which 
they promised, and which it was in tbe power of such monsters 
to bestow. Can you wonder now, Miss Berkeley, not that I am 
what I am, but that I am not worse ? You can not. I were 
either more or less than human to be other than I am. Whe- 
ther these things may excuse my conduct, I do not now ask ; 
all that I may claim from you is, that you will, at least, spare 
your sarcasms in future .upon what you are })leased to call the 
unnatural warfare which I wage against my countrymen.” 


unprofitable interview. 


315 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

UNPROFITABLE INTERVIEW. 

The maiden was indeed silenced. If she did not sympa- 
thize entirely with Barsfield, she at least saw what a natural 
course had been his, under the dreadful indignities which he 
had been made to suffer. She now looked on him with a feel- 
ing of pain and mortification as he paced the apartment to and 
fro ; and her eyes more than once filled with tears, as she 
thoug]>t how far guilty in this transaction had been the father 
of her lover. At length the tory captain turned to her once 
more. His countenance had recovered something of its seren- 
ity, though the cheek was yet unusually flushed, and when he 
spoke there was a cfbnvulsive unevenness in his accent, which 
denoted the yet unsubdued emotions of his heart. Still, with 
a moral power which he certainly possessed, however erringly 
applied, he subdued the feverish impulse ; and, after the j)ause 
of a few moments, which the excited and wounded feelings of 
Janet did not suffer her to interrupt, he proceeded to a more 
full development of his purpose and his desire. 

** I have said to you. Miss Berkeley, that I am commanded, 
so soon as the condition of my prisoner will permit, to convey 
him to the city. Are you aware with what purpose? have you 
any notion of his probable destiny 

The manner of the question alarmed the maiden much more 
than the question itself. It was grave and mysteriously em- 
phatic. His face v ore all the expression of one conscious of 
the possession of a secret, the utterance of which is to produce 
the most trying emotions in the hearer, and which the posses- 
sor, at the same time, however, does not yet dare to with- 
hold. Janet was silent for a few seconds while gazing into 
the countenance of the speaker, as if seeking to gather from 


816 


MKLLTCnAMPE. 


Ills glance wliat slie yet trembled to demand from bis lips 
but remembering tbe solemn decision of ber tliougbts when 
she granted the interview, to seek to know tbe worst that her 
enemy could inflict, she recovered and controlled ber energies. 
With a firm voice, therefore, unfaltering in a single accent, she 
requested him to proceed. 

“I am not strong — not wise. Captain Barsfield, and I am 
not able to say what my thoughts are now, or what m5" feelings 
may be when I hear what you have to unfold, But God, I 
trust, will give me strength to endure well, if I may not achieve 
much. Your looks and manner, more than your words, would 
seem to imply something which is dangerous to me and mine. 
Speak it out boldly. Captain Barsfield — better to hear the 
worst than to imagine error, and find worse in wrong imagi- 
nings. I am willing to hear all that you would say, and I beg 
that you Avould say it freely, without hesitation.” 

“I am glad that you are thus strong — thus prepared. Miss 
Berkeley ; for it pains me to think how deeply must be your 
sorrow and suffering when you learn the truth.” 

He paused; and with a hypocritical expression of sympa- 
thetic wo in his countenance, approached her when he bad 
done speaking. His hand was even extende’d with a con- 
doling manner, as if to possess itself of hers; but sbe drew 
herself up reservedly in her chair, and he halted before her. 
Her words promptly followed the action — 

I am neither strong to endure much, nor prepared to hear 
any particular cause of sorrow, as I can think of none in par- 
ticular. Speak it, however, Captain Barsfield, since, whether 
strong or prepared, I am at least desirous to knoAv all which 
may concern my feelings in the matter which you have tc 
communicate.” 

“ You will think me precipitate in my communication when 
you have heard it; and that you have not thought of it hith- 
erto, leads me to apprehend that you will even feel it more 
forcibly than I had imagined. I deem it doubly important, 
then, to bid you prepare for a serious evil.” 

These preparatory suggestions, as they were designed to do, 
necessarily stimulated still further the anxieties and appre- 


ITNPROFT TA KLK INTERVIEW. 


317 


heiisions of the hearer, though she strove nobly, and well suc- 
ceeded, in mastering her emotions. 

“Speak — speak — I pray you, sir,” she cried, almost breath- 
less. 

“ Do you know, then. Miss Berkeley, with what object I am 
required to convey Mr. Mellichampe to the city 

“No, sir — object — what object — none in particular. He 
is your prisoner — you convey him to prison,” was the hurried 
reply. 

“I do — I carry him to prison, indeed — but I also carry 
him to trial.” 

“To trial!” 

“ To trial as a spy.” 

“ A spy ! — and what then 1” 

“ He will be convicted.” 

“Impossible! he is no spy — who will dare to utter such a 
falsehood ?” 

“I will dare to utter such a truth. I will accuse — I have 
accused him. I will prove my accusation; and you. Miss 
Berkeley, can assist me in establishing the proof. I could rest 
the entire proof upon your testimony.” 

“Never — never! God help me, what audacity is this! I 
scorn your assertion — I despise — I fear nothing of your 
threats. I know better, and am not to be terrified by a tale 
so idle as this.” 

“It is no idle tale. Miss Berkeley, and you are terrified, as 
you must feel conscious of its truth. You know it to be true.” 

“I know it to be false ! — false as — Heaven forgive me, but 
this insolence also makes me mad. But I have done now, and 
you too, sir, have done, I trust. I am not to be frightened by 
such stories as these ; for, know, sir, that when this strange 
tale was uttered by you before, I had the assurance of Colonel 
Tarleton — your superior, sir — that there was nothing in it, 
and that I must not suffer myself to be alarmed. Colonel 
Tarleton’s words, sir, I remembered — he would not give them 
idly, and I believe in him. He will be there to see justice 
done to Mellichampe, and with his pledge, sir, I defy your 
malice. I, too, will go to the city — though I tread every step. 


318 


MKLLICUAMPE. 


of the way on foot — I will see Colonel Tarleton, and he will 
protect the man whom you hate — but whom you dare not 
fairly encounter — from your dishonorable malice.*’ 

“ That I dare meet him, Miss Berkeley, his present situation 
attests — it was by my arm that he was stricken down in fair 
conflict — ” 

“I believe it not^ — you dared not. Your myrmidons beset 
him, while you looked on. It was many to one ; but of this 1 
think not. It is enough thal I am required to speak with one, 
and to look upon one, who has sought to destroy him, and me 
in him. It is enough — I would hear no more. I believe not in 
this trial — Colonel Tarleton will not suffer it, and I will go to 
him. He will see justice.” 

“He will,” said Barsfield, coolly, in reply to the passionate 
and unlooked-for vehemence of the maiden — so unlike her 
usual calm gravity of deportment. 

“ Colonel Tarleton Avill do justice. Miss Berkeley — it is my . 
hope that he will do so. I have his words for it, indeed, and 
it is from him the orders come which call for the trial of the 
prisoner.” 

“The orders — Colonel Tarleton!” were the simple excla 
mations of the maiden, as she listened to the assertion. Bars- 
field calmly drew the paper from his pocket, and placed it in 
her hands. As she read, the letters swam before her eyes; 
and, when she had finished, the document fell from her nerve- 
less fingers, and she stood like a dumb imbodiment of wo, 
gazing with utter vacancy upon her companion. They were 
the orders, plainly and unequivocally written by Tarleton, as 
Barsfield had said. Hot a word Avanting — not a sentence 
doubtful in its import. Tarleton, who had promised her that 
her lover was secure, or had led her, by his language and 
general manner, to believe so, had commanded his trial. Re- 
calling all her energies, with eyes that never once were 
removed from the countenance of Barsfield, she again took the 
paper from his hands, as he was lifting it from the floor, and 
once more read it carefully over — counting the Avords — almost 
spelling them — in the hope to find some little e\'^asion of the 
first meaning — some loop-hole for escape — some solitary 


UNPROFITABLE INTERVIEW. 


319 


bougl) npon wliicli a fond liope miglit perch and rest itself. 
But in vain. The letter was a stern and business-like one. 

“ You mufat convey the prisoner, Mellichampe,’’ so ran that 
portion of it which concerned the maiden, “ so soon as his 
wounds will permit, under a strong guard, to the city, where a 
court of officers will be designated for his trial as a spy upon 
your encampment. You will spare no effort to secure all the 
evidence necessary to his conviction, and will yourself attend 
to the preferment of the charges.’^ And there, after the details 
of other matters and duties to be attended to and executed, 
was the signature of the bloody dragoon, which she more than 
once had seen before — 

“ B. Tarleton, 

“ Lt. Col. L/egion.^* 

She closed her eyes, gave back the paper, and clasped her 
hands in prayer to Heaven, as the last reliance of earth seemed 
to be taken away. She had so confidently rested upon the 
personal assurances of Tarleton, that she had almost dismissed 
entirely from her thought the charge in question ; and which 
Barsfield had originally made when the legionary colonel was 
at “Piney Grove.” Now, when she read these orders, she 
wondered at herself for so implicitly confiding in the assu- 
rances of one so habitually distrusted by the Americans, and 
so notoriously fond of bloodshed. Yet, why had he deemed it 
necessary to give these assurances to a poor maiden — one 
not a party to the war, and to whom he could have no cause 
of hostility. Why practise thus upon an innocent heart and 
a young affection? Could he be so wanton — so merciless — 
so fond of all forms of cruelty? These thoughts, these doubts, 
all filled the brain of the maiden, confusedly and actively, 
during the brief moments in which she stood silently in the 
presence of Barsfield, after having possessed herself of the 
orders with regard to Mellichampe. Her fears had almost 
stupefied her, and it was only the voice of the toiy which 
seemed to arouse her to a full consciousness, not less of the 
predicament in which her lover stood, than of the presence of 
his enemy. She raised her eyes, and, without a word, listened 
anew to the suggestions of Barsfield, who — speaking, as he 


320 


MELLICIIAMPE. 


(lid, imgiateful and unpleasant tilings — had assumed his most 
pleasant tones, and put on a deportment the most courteous 
and respectful. 

“You doubt not now, Miss Berkeley? — the facts are un- 
questionable. These are direct and positive orders, and must 
be obej'ed. In a few days Mr. Mellichampe must be conveyed 
to the city ; his trial must immediately follow, and I need not 
say how immediately thereupon must follow his conviction 
and—” 

“ Say no more — say no more,” shrieked, rather than spoke, 
his auditor. 

“ And yet. Miss Berkeley — ” 

“ Yet what ?” she demanded, hurriedly. 

“ These dangers may be averted. The youth may be 
saved.” 

She looked up doubtingly, and, as she saw the expression in 
his eyes, she shook her head in despair. She read at a 
glance the conditions. 

“ I see you understand me. Miss Berkeley.” 

“ I can not deny that I think I do, sir,” was her prompt 
reply. 

“ And yet, as you may not, better that I speak my thoughts 
plainly. I can save Mr. Mellichampe — I am ready to do so; 
for, though my enemy, I feel that I love another far more 
than I can possibly hate him. I will save him for that other. 
Does Miss Berkeley hear ? will she heed ?” 

Barsfield might well ask these questions, for the thoughts of 
Janet were evidently elsewhere. His finger rested upon her 
hand, and she started as from a sudden danger. There was a 
bitter smile upon the lips of the tory, as he noticed the shud- 
dering emotion with which she withdrew her hand. Her 
attention, however, seeming now secured, he continued his 
suggestions. 

“I will save the life of the prisoner — he shall be free as 
air. Miss Berkeley, if, in return, you will — ” 

“ Oh, Captain Barsfield, this is all very idle, and not less 
painful than idle. You know it can not be. You know me 
not if you can think it for a moment longer. It is impossibly 


rNPROyil'ABLK IN'l'ERVIEW. 


321 


sir, that I can survive Mollielianipo ; still mor<‘ impossible that 
I can survive bis love, or give my own to another. Leave me 
now, sir, I pray yon. Leave me now. We can speak no 
more together. You can have nothing further to say, as you 
can have nothing worse to communicate.” 

“ But, Miss Berkeley — ” 

He Avould have spoken, but she Avaved her hand impatiently. 
He saAv at a glance how idle would be all further effort, and 
the murderous nature within him grew active Avith this convic- 
tion. His hate to Mellichampe Avas noAv shared equally be- 
tween him and his betrothed. The parting look AA-hich he 
gave her, as he left the apartment, did not encounter ajiy con- 
sciousness in hers, or she might have dreaded, in the next 
instant, to feel the venomous fang of the serpent. Her strength 
failed her after his departure. Restrained till then, her emo- 
tions greAv insupportable the moment she was left alone ; and 
when Rose Duncan, apprised of Barsfield’s absence, sought 
her in the room where the conference had taken place, she 
found her stretched upon the floor, only not enough insensible* 
to escape from the mental agony which the new situation of 
things had forced upon her. 


14 * 


322 


MELIJCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

TROUBLES OF THE LOVERS. 

“ Is he gone ?” were the first, shudderingly-expressed words, 
which the suffering maiden addressed to Rose Duncan as the 
latter assisted her in rising from the floor. Her eyes were 
red and swollen ; her glance wild, wandering, and strangely 
full of light; her lips compressed with a visible effort, as if to 
restrain the expression of those emotions which were still so 
powerfully felt and shown. Instead of replying to the ques- 
tion of Janet, Rose could not forbear an exclamation of partial 
rebuke. 

“I warned you — I told you not to see him, Janet. You 
are now sorry for it.” 

“No — no ! I must have known it, and better as it is — bet- 
ter, better as it is — to know it all ; there is no second stroke — 
no other that can now be felt, except — God of heaven ! have 
mercy, and save me from that !” 

She buried her face in the bosom of Rose, and sobbed with 
convulsive sorrows, as her imagination presented to her eye 
the probable result of the trial to which her lover was to be 
subjected. 

“He never spares. Rose — he has no mercies! From the 
place of trial to the place of death, it is but a step ! So the 
malignant Barsfield said it, and so it will be with such judges 
as Balfour and Tarleton.” And, as she spoke, she closed her 
eyes, as if to shut out the dreadful images of doom and death 
which were gathering thickly before her. It was only in 
fitful starts of speech that Rose could gather from her com- 
panion the truth of her situation and the cause of her grief 
It was only bj' successive pictures of the dreadful events 


TKOUBO:S OF THE LOVERS. 


323 


wliicli she anticipated, as they severally came to her mind, 
and not by any effort at narration, that she was enabled to 
convey to that of Rose the cruel nature of the intelligence 
which Barsfield had conveyed in his interview. The anger of 
Rose grew violent when she heard it, and that of Janet imme 
diately subsided. She could the better perceive the futility 
of uttered grief, when she perceived the inadequacy of all 
words to describe her emotions. Grief, like Rapture, was 
born dumb. 

But if Janet suffered thus much at first hearing of this sad 
intelligence, she did not suffer less when communicating it that 
evening to her lover. Could she have suffered for him — could 
she have felt all the agony of her present thoughts, assured 
that it lay with her alone to endure all and let him go free, 
she would not have murmured — she would have had no uttered 
grief. But the dreadful task was before her of saying to her 
lover that the hour of their parting and probably their final 
parting, was at hand. How much less painful to have heard 
it from his lips to her, than to breathe it from her lips into his 
ears. She could endure the stroke coming from him, but she 
thought — and this was the thought of one who love unselfishly 
— that she shared in the cruelty — -that she became a party to 
the crime, and its immediate instrument, in unfolding the 
dreadful intelligence to him. “He will hate me — he will 
regard it as my deed — and oh ! how can I look as I tell him 
this — how can features express such feelings — such a sorrow 
as is mine !” 

Such were the sobbing and broken words with which she 
sought her lover. She strove, however, to compose her coun- 
tenance. She even labored — foolish endeavor! to restrain — 
to subdue her emotions. But when was the heart of woman — 
properly constituted only for intense feeling, and entire de- 
t pendence that admits of no qualified love — to be restrained 
and subjected by a merely human will. There was that at 
' her heart which would not be compelled. The feeling only 
gathered itself up for a moment the better to expand. The 
restraint gave it new powers of action, and, though she appeared 
in the presence of Mellichampe with a countenance in which a 


324 


MELLICHAMPE. 


smile even strove for place and existence, it was yet evident 
to herself that the power of self-control was rapidly departing 
from her. The strife of encountering feelings was going on 
within — the earthquake toiling below, though sunshine and 
flowers only were visible without. 

It was with a joy so intense as to be tremulous, that Melli- 
champe received her. His confinement had made him still 
more a dependent upon her presence and affections. His love 
for her had duly increased with its daily exercise; and, in the 
absence of other and exciting influences,*^ it had become a 
regular, constant, and increasing flame, which concentrated 
almost all his thoughts, and certainly governed and linked 
itself with all his emotions. He longed for her coming as the 
anticipative boy longs for the hour of promised enjoyment — 
with a feverish thirst no less intense, and an anxious earnest- 
ness far more lofty and enduring. When the latch was lifted 
he ran forward to receive her, caught her extended hand in 
both of his own, and carried it warmly and passionately to his 
lips. She could scarce effect her release, and the blush min- 
gled with the laboring smile upon her lips, which it rather 
tended to strengthen than displace. 

“Oh, Janet — my own Janet — what an age of absence! 
How long you were in coming this evening! — what has kept 
you, and wherefore? Truly, I began to fear that you were 
tired of your office.” 

“No — no, Ernest — I can not tire, since it is so sweet to 
serve. If I sought for mere pleasure and amusement in love, 
I might tire of its sameness ; but the love of my heart is its 
devotion, and the better feelings of our nature, like the God 
from whom they come, are the more dear to us, and the more 
lovely in his sight, as they are never subject to cliange.” 

“ Beautiful sentiment !” Avas the involuntary exclamation of 
the youth, as he looked in her face and saw, through the 
gathering tears in her eyes, the high-souled seriousness — the 
sanctified earnestness of heart, which proved that she felt the 
truth of the thought which she had uttered. Love was, indeed, 
the religion of Janet Berkeley. It was in her to love all 
things in nature, and to gather sweets from all its influences 


TROUBLES OF THE LOVERS. 


325 


Even tlie sntduing grief to wliicli she was more than commonly 
subject, brought into increased activity the love which she felt 
for him who stood before her, yet awakened no opposite feeling 
in her bosom against those who sought to do him wrong. 

“Beautiful sentiment!" he exclaimed, passionately, “and 
worthy of your heart, my Janet. Love is its constant occupa- 
tion, and I believe, dearest, that you could not help but love 
on, even if I were to forget your devotedness and my own 
pledge to you. Would you not, Janet?" 

“I know not that, Ernest. I have never thought of that, 
hut I think I could die then ;" and the last words were uttered 
in his folding arms, and came to his ears like the sweet mur- 
mur of angel voices in a dream. 

“ Heaven forhid, my Janet, that I should ever do you wrong, 
however slight ? It would pain me to think that you could 
imagine the possibility of a wrong at my hands,* and through 
my agency. True love, dearest, is a thing of entire confidence, 
and nothing seems to me so sweet as the knowledge that you 
have no emotion, no feeling or thought, which you do not give 
up to my keeping. It may be, indeed, that the thoughts and 
feelings of women have little comparative value, so far as the 
interests of men and of nations are concerned ; but. valueless 
or not, they are thoughts and feelings with her — her all — her 
only — and, as such, they should be of permanent value with 
him wdio loves her.- How much that was unimportant — nay, 
bow much that was positive nonsense — did we say to each 
other last evening — and yet, Janet, to me it was the sweetest 
nonsense." 

And, smiling and folding her in his arms with the respectful 
fondness of a natural atfection, he poured forth as garrulous a 
tale in her ears as if he had not long and frequently before 
narrated to her his own experience of heart, and demanded 
hers in return. But she could not now respond to his garrulity. 
It was not that she felt not with him — not that the heart had 
suffered change, and the love had grown inconstant, tliough, 
beholding her abstraction, with this he had reproached her; 
but, reminded as she was of the joys which they had promised 
themselves together in their frequent and s\veet interviews, she 


826 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


was now only the more forcibly taught to feel the violent 
wrenching away from hope which the cunning of Barsfield, 
and the bloody tyranny of Balfour and Tarleton, were pre- 
paring for them both. She. could only throw herself upon his 
manly bosom, like some heart-stricken and desponding depend- 
ant, and sob, as if, with every convulsion, life would render up 
its sacred responsibility. 

It is needless to say how alarmed — how shocked was Melli- 
champe, as he witnessed emotions so suddenly and strangely 
violent. Since he had been a prisoner and wounded, with 
Janet attending upon him, life had been to them both all 
coulcur de rose. Insensibly they had both forgotten the re- 
straints and difficulties, if not the dangers, of his situation. 
They had lived, only for love ; they had forgotten all priva- 
tions in its enjoyments ; and, as the circumstances attending 
Mellichampe had made all further concealment unnecessary 
of the tie which bound them so sweetly and inseparably to 
gether, their mutual hearts revelled in the freedom which their 
release from all the old restraints necessarily brought to them. 
Next to the joy of contemplating the beloved object, is the 
pride with which we can challenge it for our own ; and that 
feeling of pride, of itself, grew into a sentiment of pleasure in 
the hourly and free survey of the object in the eye of others; 
as the devotee of a new faith, who has long worshipped in 
secret, avails himself of the first moment of emancipation to 
build a proud temple to the God of his hidden idolatry. Thus 
moved toward each other, and free, as it were, to love securely 
for the first time, the two, so blessed, had forgotten all other 
considerations. His wound ceased to be a pain, and almost a 
care, since it was so entirely the care of the maiden ; and her 
tendance made the moments precious of his confinement, and 
he blessed the evils which placed him in a relationship the 
most desirable, and far the most delightful, of any he had ever 
known. 

To the maiden, the very assumption of some of the cares of 
life, in attending upon the object most beloved, was eminently 
grateful, as it was the first step which she had yet taken 
toward the performance of some of those duties for which 


TROUBLES OF TUE LOVERS. 


327 


^vomau Is peculiarly formed, and for wliicli her gentle regards 
and affectionate tendernesses make her particularly fitted. 
They occupied her mind while they interested her Iieart the 
more ; and so completely did they absorb thoughts and affec- 
tions in the brief period of his confinement and sickness, that 
she no longer heeded the hourly din of the military music 
around her; and the shrill note of the bugle, which heretofore 
sent a thrill of dreadful apprehension to her soul whenever its 
warlike summons smote upon her ear, now failed entirely to 
remind her of those causes of apprehension to which she had 
been before always most sensitively alive. From this dream 
of pleasure, in which every thought and feeling which might 
have counselled pain or doubt had been merged and lost sight 
of, she had been too suddenly aroused by the cruel communi- 
cation of Barsfield. The long train of pleasant sensations, 
hopes, and joys, departed in that instant; and in their place 
rose up all the accustomed forms of fierce war and brutal out- 
rage, with the additional horrors of that peculiar danger to 
which the circumstances connected with her lover’s captivity 
and situation had subjected him. As these successive images 
of terror rose up before her imagination and crowded upon her 
mind, the strong resolution with which she had determined 
u]‘on their mastery quite gave way, and she fell upon the neck 
of her lover, yielding to all the weakness of her heart, and 
refusing any longer to contend with her griefs. 

Nor could he for some time obtain from her a knowledge of 
her cause of sorrow'. She could only sob, not speak. Once 
or twice she strove earnestly to articulate, but the words choked 
her in their utterance, and they terminated in convulsive but 
iinsyllabled sounds. He bore her to a seat, and knelt down 
beside her, supporting her head upon his shoulder. Earnestly 
and fondly did he seek^to sooth the paroxysm under which she 
suffered, .and vainly, for a long wdiile, did he implore her to be 
calm and speak forth her griefs. When at length she so 
far recovered herself as to raise her head from his shoulder 
and fix her eye upon his face, the glance was instantly 
averted, as if with horror, and the tears burst forth afresh. 
With that glance came the thought of the hour when that 


328 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


noble bead should be in the grasp of the executioner — that 
manly, high, pure white brow obscured by his cowling blind — 
and thr.t polished and lifted neck grasped by the polluting 
halter. 

These were the dreadful thoughts which came crowding to 
her mind on that instant; and they might have been the 
thoughts and the apprehensions, at that period, of a far 
more masculine mind than that of Janet Berkeley ; for, what 
was so common then as the certainty of execution to the ac- 
cused American ? what so sure as the execution of death to 
one doomed by Balfour, Tarleton, or Cornwallis ? In these 
hands lay the destiny of her lover. A few days would convey 
him to the place of trial. A few hours travel through all its 
abridged forms, and the hurried process of examination, mis- 
representing justice ; and how brief was the sad interval al- 
lowed for the final preparation between the doom and its exe- 
cution. These thoughts, which, to the strong and fearless man. 
would have been only so many stirring apprehensions, were a 
full conviction in the'gentle heart of the timid and fond Janet. 
She feared the worst, aijd, being of no sanguine temper, she 
saw no hope upon which to lean for succor. Nothing but 
clouds and storms rose before her sight, and her love, undevia- 
ting and growing warmer to the last, was the only star that 
rayed out in blessing through the thickness and the gloom. 

“ Oh, what, dearest Janet, is this suffering that wrings you 
thus? What dream of danger, what wild apprehension, trou- 
bles you ? Speak to me, say what you know. Let me relieve 
your sorrows, or, at least, share them with you.*’ 

It was thus that the youth pleaded, it was thus that he fondly 
implored her to pour the griefs of her bosom into his, and make 
him a partaker of those evils which she evidently was not 
strong enough to bear alone. She replied by sobs, and it was 
only at remote intervals that, coupling together the broken 
parts of her speech, he was enabled to gather from her that he 
was about to be carried to Charleston as a prisoner. Hearing 
thus much, the first thought of Mellichampe was one gratifv- 
ing to his vanity, and grateful in the extreme to his own warm 
affection. He clasped 1 er fervently to his heart as he replied, 


rROUBLES OF TIIK L<-VERS. 


32y 


“And jou grieve tlms at our parting, at tlie prospect of oui 
separation. All, dearest, sweet is tins additional evidence of 
your sole-hearted love. But it will not be long, I will soon re- 
turn, I only go to be exchanged.” y 

“ Ob, no, no, no ! — never — never ! You will return no more. 
Ft is false, Ernest — false! No exchange — no exchange I 
They carry you to Balfour and to Tarleton, to be tried — to 
die I to die !” 

Incoherently then, but with the utmost rapidity, she ex- 
plained to him the circumstances which Barsfield had narrated 
to her. His astonishment far exceeded her own apprelien- 
sions, and, after the first feeling of indignant surprise was 
over, he calmly and confidently enough sought to reassure 
her mind on the subject. 

“ Fear nothing, my Janet. They dare do nothing of what 
you fear ; and this charge against me, of being a spy upon 
their camp, is too ridiculous to need any refutation, and should 
occasion no concern.” 

The composure of her lover failed to satisfy her. 

“ Alas ! Ernest, no charge is too ridiculous with them. How 
many have suffered from charges equally idle in the minds of 
honest men !” 

Th is was a truth well known to Mellichampe, and fully as 
strong in his mind as a cause of apprehension as it was in 
the mind of the maiden ; but, with that pride of character 
and soldierly resolve which were becoming in the man, he 
did not allow his own fears to strengthen hers. He over- 
ruled her reply, and rejected entirely the anticipation of 
any danger resulting from the prospect of a trial in the city 
under an allegation which, in his case, be esteemed so idle. 

“ I can soon disprove the charge, my J anet, I have witnesses 
enough to show what my motives were in coming to Piney 
Grove that night. For, Janet, you yourself, dearest, could 
speak for me — ” 

“ I could, I could, dear Ernest.” 

“ But should not,” he replied ; “ you should not suffer such 
exposure to the rude soldiers as such a task would call for. 
No, no, my love, there will be no need of this. The scoundrel 


330 


MELLICHAMPE. 


Barsfield only seeks to alarm or to annoy you. Perluips, too 
he has some object in it. This affair is his entirely ; Tarleton 
and Balfour have nothing to do with it, and Cornwallis is far 
off in I^orth Carolina.” 

“ Not so, Ernest. Barsfield has convinced me that the or- 
ders are from Tarleton : for, when I doubted his word, he 
showed me the letter of Tarleton, written with his own hand.” 

“ Ah ! then, there is something in it,” was the involuntary 
exclamation of the youth. Then, as he beheld the immediate 
effect of his own gloomy look and speech upon the counte- 
nance of the maiden, he proceeded in a more cheerful manner. 

“ But I fear them not, my Janet, they can not, they dare not 
harm me. I can prove my innocence, even should they pro- 
ceed to the threatened trial, which I misdoubt they never will 
do; and, if they do me less than justice, my countrymen will 
avenge it.” 

But such an assurance gave no animated hope to Janet. 
Her tears burst forth afresh, and she clung to his arm and hung 
upon his shoulder droopingly and despondingly. 

“ Hear me, Janet, dear love, and have no apprehensions. 
You know not how strong is our secyirity now against any sucli 
crimes in future, as these tyrants have been in the habit of 
committing upon the brave men who have fallen into their 
hands. We have required our commander to retaliate unspar- 
ingly, and Marion has pledged himself to do so. When his 
pledge is given it is sacred. We have called upon him to 
avenge upon a prisoner of equal gmde any execution of our 
officers by the British commanders ; and we have freely sub- 
scribed our names to the' paper, in wdiich we offer our lives 
freely to sustain him in such a course, and thus afford a solemn 
proof of our sincerity. The enemy is not unadvised of this, 
and they have become cautious since that affair at Camden. 
We hear of no more executions ; they know better, my love, 
than to proceed in this matter to any length. They will pay 
dearly for every drop which is shed of my blood.” 

“Alas! Ernest, this consoles me nothing. On the contrary, 
this very pledge which you have given to Marion, calling for 
retaliatio 1 upon the British, and promising to abide the conse 


TROUBLES OF THE LOVEKS. 


331 


quences with your own life, will it not make you only the more 
obnoxious to them ?, Will they not be the more disposed to 
punish you for that; and will it not prompt them to receive the 
most ridiculous charge with favor, if it promises to secure them 
a victim in one who has shown so much audacity ? I fear me, 
Ernest, that this very matter has led Tarleton to forget his 
promise to me, and determines him to make you abide the pen- 
alty for which you have pledged yourself. Perhaps, too, it 
may be, that Marion, in obedience to the pledge given to you, 
has executed some British officer.” 

This was a plausible suggestion, and did not tend in the 
slightest degree to assure Mellichampe of the integrity of 
his own opinions. It made him thoughtful for a while, and 
increased 4;he gloomy density of the prospect before him ; 
but he did not suffer himself to forget for an instant that 
it was his business to prevent the maiden from brooding ap- 
prehensively upon a subject so calculated to make her miser- 
able, and which had already so painfully worked upon her 
feelings. He strove, by alternate defiance and ridicule, to 
show that the danger was not so great when it was ap- 
proached — that the British did not dare do what was 
threatened ; and that, however willing and desirous they 
might be to shed the blood of their enemies, a discreet 
consideration of their own safety would keep them in future 
from any wanton execution of their prisoners. 

“ And should they, in their madness, attempt my life, the 
vengeance which would follow the deed would be such as 
would make them repent of the error to the latest moment. 
Life for life would be the atoning requisition of Marion, and 
of every officer pledged to retaliation along with myself.” 

But that which in the shape of revenge, had the power to 
console in part the audacious soldier, failed utterly to pro- 
duce a like effect upon the maiden. Her tears came forth 
afresh at these words, and mournfully she sobbed out the re- 
ply which most effectually silenced all further assurances of 
this nature. 

“ Alas ! Ernest, but this vengeance, which would be taken 
by your brethren ii arms, would be nothing to me. To revenge 


232 


MELLICHAMPE. 


your fate would not be to restore you ; and for all my ven- 
geance I look only to Heaven. Speak not to me of these 
things, dearest Ernest, they only make the danger seem more 
real, and it looks more closely at hand when you speak thus.” 

“ Then hear me on another topic, Janet.” 

She looked up inquiringly, and the tears began to dry upon 
her cheek as she beheld a bright light and a gathering elasti- 
city of expression in his eyes. Her head was thrown back as 
she looked up into his face, while his extended hands grasped 
her arms tenderly. 

“ I will not risk this trial, Janet, I will escape from this 
double bondage, yours and the enemy’s.” 

“How!” was the wondering exclamation of the maiden. 

“I have a thought, not yet fully matured in my- mind, by 
which I think my escape may be effected. But no more of it 
now. That is the footstep of the surgeon. Away, dearest, 
and have no fears. Despond not, I pray you, but be ready 
witli all your strength of mind to give me your assistance, for 
I greatly depend on you in my design.” 

With a hurried embrace they separated as the surgeon en- 
tered the chamber; and Janet hurried away, with a full heart 
and troubled mind, to pray for her lover’s safety, and to dream 
ef liis coming danger. 


THE UAJ.F-BliKKD BliTBAYS THE TOBY. 


333 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE HALF-BREED BETRAYS THE TORY. 

But it was not for the maiden to retire that night to her 
slumbers without some better assurances for hope than those 
contained in the parting intimation of her lover. An auxil- 
iary, but little looked for, was at hand j and, as she loft the 
little ante-chamber in which her interview with Mellichampe 
had taken place, she felt her sleeve plucked by some one from 
behind. She turned in some trepidation, which was instantly 
relieved, ho\vever, as her eye distinguished the intruder to 
be Blonay. The distorted features of this man had never 
offended Janet, as they were apt commonly to offend those of 
others. She saw nothing in mere physical deformity, at 
any time, to hate or to despise ; and, as pity was always the 
most ready and spontaneous sentiment of her soul, she had 
regarded him from the first, as she knew nothing of his moral 
deformities, with none btit sentiments of commiseration and 
indulgence. 

The effect of this treatment, and of these invariable shows 
of sympathy on her part, was always made visible in his de- 
portment and look whenever he approached her. He strove, 
on all such occasions, to subdue and keep down those expres- 
sions of hate, cunning, and cupidity, which a long practice in 
the various arts of human warfare had rendered, if not the 
natural, the habitual features of his face. A ludicrous com- 
bination of natural ugliness with smiles, intended for those of 
complaisance and regard, was the consequence of these efforts : 
and, however unsuccessful the half breed may have been in 
the assumption of an expression so foreign to his own, the 
attempt, as it conveyed a desire to please and make himself 


334 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


agreeable, Avas sufficient to commend him to the indulgence of 
one of so gentle a mood as Janet Berkeley. 

Approacbing ber now, tlie countenance of Blonay wore its 
most seductive expression. Tbe grin of good-feeliug Avas of 
tbe most extravagant dimensions, expanding tbe moutli from 
ear to ear; Avbile tbe goggle eyes above, from tbe vastness of 
tbe effort beloAv, were contracted to tbe smallest possible 
limits. But for this good-natured expression, tbe mysterious 
caution of bis approacb might liaA^e alarmed tbe maiden. A 
single start, as sbe recognised liim, only testified ber surprise, 
and sbe paused quietly the moment after, to learn liis motive 
for the interruption. 

“ Hist, miss ! I ax your pardon, but please let me come after 
you in the room ; I Avant to tell you something.” 

She did not scruple to bid him follow her, and they entered 
the apartment in which she had conversed with Barsfield 
There she found Rose Duncan awaiting her. Janet signed tc 
Rose to leave them for a while, and the moment they were 
alone, the half-breed drew nigh, and in a whisper, and with an 
air of great mystery, commenced as folloAvs : — 

“ You’ve hearn from the cappin, miss, about the young man 
what’s a prisoner here?” 

He spoke affirmatively, though with an inquiring expression 
of countenance, and Janet nodded her head assentingly. 

“ Adrat it, miss, if they ever gits the young man to Charles- 
ton city, there’s no chance for him ; so the cappin says.” 

He paused. At a loss to determine what could be the 
motive of the scout in thus addressing her upon this topic, yet 
fondly believing that he had some plan of service in reserve, 
by Avbich he hoped to commend himself, she strongly mastered 
her feelings, which every reference to the painful topic brought 
into increased and trying activity ; and, bowing her head as 
she spoke, she simply responded : — 

“ True, sir ; yes, I fear it — but Avhat can he done?” 

This question, though uttered unconsciously, and entirely 
unintended, Avas, however, to the point, and the ansAver of 
Blonay was immediate : — 

“Ah, that’s it, miss — what’s to be done? The cappin says 


THE HALF-BREED BETRAYS THE TORT. 


335 


sometliiiig’s to be clone, but, be can’t do it, you see, ’cauge 
they trusts bim, and he can’t break bis trust. It’s much as bis 
neck’s worth, you see, to do it.” 

With some surprise, she inquired of whom be spoke. 

“ Why, you don’t know the cappin that’s here — Cappin Bars- 
field ? He says as how the young man’s to be hung if he gits 
to Charleston, and how he must get away before; and he tells 
me I’m to try and git him ofP, without letting the sogers see.” 

“ Barsfield — Barsfield say this? Barsfield do this, Mr. Blo- 
nay ? Impossible ! You do not know the man.” 

“It’s a round truth, miss — he tell’d me so with his own 
mouth, and tell’d me — ax pardon, miss, but I must tell you all 
what he said — ” 

He paused hesitatingly. 

“ Speak boldly,” she said, encouragingly. 

“ He said, miss, as how he loved you, though you didn’t 
fancy him no how, and hadn’t no thought ’cept for the young 
fellow that’s a prisoner; and how he wanted to help the young 
man, though he didn’t like him no how ; and he would do so, 
if ’twas only to do you pleasure.” 

“And he told you this?” inquired the maiden, in unmixed 
astonishment. 

“ Jist the words, miss.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“Yes; and he said as how he couldn’t help the young man 
off, for he had to watch him, but that I must do it; and he 
gave me this money to do it.” 

“ And did he counsel you to tell me of this ?” 

“No, miss, he only tell’d me to tell you that I could git the 
young fellow out of prison, and git you to make him know 
how he was to do, and all about it ; but the cappin told me I 
wasn’t to say^nothing about him in the business, for he said 
you hated him so you would think something wrong if you 
knew he had a hand in it.” 

“And I do think there is something wrong in it. Heaven 
help me ! what new plot is he weaving now ? What new mis- 
chief would he contrive ? Is Mellichampe never to escape his 
toils ? Would to Heaven that I had a friend ?” 


836 


MKLLIOIIAMPE. 


“ Adrat it, miss, but aint I willing to be your friend ? and T 
won’t ax you for no pay. I’m a poor sort of body enough, and 
you’re a sweet lady ; but I’m willing to be your friend, and to 
pull trigger for you, if needs be and the time comes for it. 
Jist say now that I shall be your friend, and there’s no telling 
how much I can help you in this here squabble.” 

“You can help me nothing, I fear me, Mr. Blonay ; and as 
for this plan of Captain Barsfield, I will have nothing to do 
with it or him. I doubt — I suspect all his plans; and how- 
ever he may profess of regard for me, I look upon this employ- 
ment of you, for the purpose of which you speak, as only a 
new scheme for the entrapment of Mr. Mellichampe.” 

“ That’s jist what I was going to tell you, miss ; for, you 
see, it don’t stand to reason, that when a man hates another 
to kill, he’s going to help him to git away ; and so, when Che 
cappin first spoke to me, I was bewildered like, and said I’d 
do it ; but, soon as I got in the bush and began to think about 
it, adrat it ! the whole contrivance stood clear before me, and 
so I went back to him.” 

“ For what ?” 

“ Well, you see, to tell him as how I couldn’t think to han- 
dle the thing, for I didn’t see to the bottom of it.” 

“ Well — what then ?” 

“Why, then he up and tell’d me all the whole truth — all 
what he kept before : and, sure enough, ’twas jist as I thought, 
and jist what you think. The cappin only wanted to have a 
drive himself at the young fellow, and he thought, if he could 
git me to talk to you, and make fine promises as how I could 
git him out of prison, why, I should lead him into a trap that 
ne’d set, so that there would be no gitting oiOP.” 

“ You refused V* 

“ No, reckon not. I worn’t a fool, you see. I know’d if I 
said no, it wouldn’t be so safe for me any longer in these parts ; 
and then agin I know’d if he didn’t git me he’d git somebody 
else, so I took the money, and promised to do my best and to 
try you.” 

“I thank you, Mr. Blonay — from my heart I thank you. 
You have done me good service indeed and you shall be 


THE HALF-BREED BETRAYS THE TORY. 


837 


rewarded. Had yon not told me all of tliis business — liad you 
suppressed the connection of Captain Barsfield with the de- 
sign — I might have accepted your services for Mr. Melli- 
cliampe; nay, I must have been driven, by tlie desperate 
situation in which he stands, to cpnsent to his flight under 
your direction. And then — oh, horrible to think upon ! — my 
hand would have been instrumental in his murder. I should 
have prepared the snare which was to give his victim to this 
bloody man !’' 

She preserved her coolness, though trembling with the new 
emotions which the communication of Blonay had inspired, 
and drew from him, by a series of questions, the whole dia- 
logue which had taken place between him and the tory. From 
these developments she was persuaded — not that her lover 
w’as likely to escape at the coming trial, and thus defeat the 
wishes of his enemy — but that the anxious thirst of Barsfield 
for his revenge in person made him unwilling to lose his prey, 
even through the hands of the executioner. With this impres- 
sion her misery was doubly increased. She saw nothing but 
dangers and difficulties on every hand. Should Mellichampe 
be carried safely to tbe city, what but a cruel and bitter death 
awaited him there ? But could he be carried there in safety ? 
This seemed to her impossible. Would he not go under the 
custody of Barsfield’s creatures? No longer guarded by her 
watchful attendance — no longer safe from the presence and 
the obtrusion of others, would not his enemy then have those 
thousand opportunities fbr working out his vengeance which 
now were denied him by the excellent arrangements made by 
Tarleton ? And if he fled before that period came, wliat but 
the knife or the pistol of the waylaying ruffian could she 
expect for him in his flight? As these fears and thoughts 
accumulated in her mind, she found herself scarcely able to 
maintain a proper firmness iu the presence of the savage. She 
accordingly prepared to dismiss him, and had already put in 
his liands a small sum of gold, which he did not demur to 
receive, when she remembered that it might be of advantage, 
and was certainly only her duty, to disclose these circumstances 
to Mellichampe before finally rejecting the proposition. 

16 


338 


mi:llioiiampk. 


‘ Seek me to-morrow,” slie said, liurriedly, “ seek me ir. 
private, when the troops are on parade. Keep yourself un- 
seen, Mr. Blonay, and we will then speak more on this matter.' 

At the earliest opportunity on the morning of the next day 
she sought Mellichampe, ^id unfolded all the particulars of 
the interview with Blonay. The speech of her lover, as he 
listened to her communication, astounded her not a little. 

“Admirable! — Excellent!” were the words of exultation 
with which he received the intelligence. “ This will do ad- 
mirably, dear Janet, and corresponds finely with a plan which 
I had conceived in part. A good plan, attended with diffi 
culties, however, which, without the aid of Blonay, I could not 
so easily have overcome. I now see my v/ay through. The 
scheme of Barsfield will help me somewhat to the execution of 
my own project, and must greatly facilitate my chances of 
escape.” 

“ Speak — hoAv — say, dear Ernest,” cried the maiden breath- 
lessly. 

“Hear me. We will accept of the services of this fellow 
Blonay — I Avill take his guidance.” 

“ What ! to be murdered !” 

“ No ! to escape.” 

She shook her head doubtfully. 

“Listen!” he proceeded. “Blonay is trusted by Barsfield, 
and evidently does not trust in return. It is shown sufficiently 
in the development which he has made to you of all the plans 
of the tory. We do not see exact! }• why this should be so, 
but so it evidently is. The probability is, indeed, that Blonay 
IS conscious that he has no claim upon Barsfield after he shall 
have served him by my death, and he fears that he himself 
will be as soon murdered by his employer when he shall have 
discharged his agency, in order to the better concealment of 
his own share in my escape. There are no ties among ruffians 
save those of a common interest, and the policy of Barsfield 
will be the destruction of one to whom he has been compelled 
to confide so much. According to Blonay’s own showing, the 
necessity of the case extorted from the tory a confession of his 
true design, which, before, he was disposed to withhold. Un 


THE UALF-BUEED BlCfRAYS THE TORT. 


339 


faithful to Barsfield, the half breed will be faithful to me ; and, 
from all that I can see, there must be some secret reason for 
his desire to serve you, which you will learn in time. Mean- 
while we will accept his services — we will make the most of 
him, and bribe high in order to secure him at all points.” 

But may not all this be only another form of deception, 
dear Ernest?” cried the less sanguine maiden. “Think you 
we can rely upon one whom money can buy ? Alas ! Ernest, 
it seems to me that these dangers grow more terrible and 
numerous the more we survey them.” 

“To be sure they do, dear Janet — the thing is a proverb. 
But we should never look at the fear, but the hope — never at 
the danger, always at the success. Whetlier Blonay be honest 
or not, it matters no great deal to me in the plan which I have 
formed. To a certain extent we may still rely upon him, and 
be independent of him in every other respect. We want but 
little at his hands — little in his thought, and little in that of 
Barsfield — if it be the design of the latter to entrap me into 
flight the better to effect my murder, T only desire to secure 
my escape beyond this dwelling — to escape these sentinels, 
and once more plant my footstep in the green woods that grow 
around us. Let him help me but to that degree of freedom, 
and I ask nothing further. Let the strife come then — let the 
ambuscade close then its toils about me, and the danger ap- 
pear. I shall then be free: my arms to strike — my voice to 
shout aloud — my soul to exult in the fresh air of these old 
forests, though I perish the very next moment.” 

“ Speak not so, Ernest,” she implored. 

“ I must : for I will then breathe again in freedom, though 
I breathe in death. I shall complain nothing of the fight.” 

“This is madness, Ernest. This is only flying from one 
form of death to another.” 

“ Granted — and that is much. Who would not fly to the 
knife, or the sudden shot, to escape the cord — the degradation 
— the high tree — and the howling hate that surrounds it, and 
mingles in with the last agonies of death. Such escape would 
be freedom, though it brought death along with it. But I 
would not die, my Janet j with proper management I should 


340 


MELLICHAMPE. 


be secure.” He spoke with an air of confidence that almost 
reassured her. 

“ How she cried, anxiously ; “ tell me all — tell me your 
hope, Ernest. How will you escape — by what management I” 

“ By the simplest agency in the world. Hear me ; Even 
now that trusty fellow, Witherspoon, is lurking around my 
prison. Only last night, just after you left me, I heard his 
signals close upon, and evidently this side of, the avenue. 
But for the fear of provoking suspicion I should have answered 
them. He is about me night and day — he will sooner desert 
the squad than me. And thus he will remain ; if I can convey 
intelligence to him, I can do anything — I can effect my 
escape. I can put it out of the power of Barsfield to do me 
any harm, unless he does it in fair fight.” 

“ But how will you do this ; and what can I do toward it V* 

“ Much, dearest — very much. But hear me further. If I 
can say to Witherspoon, ‘ On such a night I fly from my prison 

— I meet you at such a place — I pursue such a course — I 
apprehend an ambuscade, and will require that a counter- 
ambuscade be set’ — ha ! do you see?” 

“Yes — yes — goon.” 

“He will understand — it will come to him like a light- 
like a light from Heaven. He will not be able to bring men 
enough to encounter Barsfield’s whole force, which has been 
growing largely, you tell m,e, but he will bring enough to tell 
against the few whom the tory will employ for my murder, and 
thus — ah ! you understand me now.” 

“ Yes, Ernest, but still I fear.” 

“ I hope ! — what do you fear?” 

“ The fighting — ” 

“And, if I am free, dear Janet, I should still have to fight 
until the war is over — until the invader has gone from the 
land.” 

“ Yes, but — oh, Ernest, if there should not be rhen enougli ? 

— if they should not come in time — ?” 

“ These are risks which I must take hourly, my beloved, and 
of which I may not complain now. Remember the dreadful 
risk which I incur while remaining. Is there no risk in going 


THE HALF-BKEED BKIKAYS THE TORY. 3 : 1:1 

under a guard to Charleston, to he tried as a spy — and by 
such judges as Balfour, Rawdon, and Tarleton 

She shuddered, hut said nothing. He continued — 

“ No, my love, I must not scruple to avail myself of the help 
of Blonay, whether he be true or false. Let him but help m(5 
beyond this prison — to those woods — I ask from him no more. 
Let him lead me to the ambuscade. If we can convey intelli- 
gence to Witherspoon, we shall provide for it. I shall with- 
hold everything from Blonay that might place us in his power. 
He shall know nothing of our plans, but be suffered to pursue 
his own. He shall guide me beyond the prison — that is all 
that I require ; and as it is Barsfield’s own plan which we so 
far follow up, he will doubtless effect all necessary arrange- 
ments for speeding me beyond the regular guards in safet3^ 
Once let me reach the avenue, and I leave his guidance and 
take the opposite path, where I propose that Witherspoon 
shall place his men.” 

“ And you will, then, employ Blonay to convey this matter 
to Witherspoon ?” 

“No, no. We must have a trustier friend than Blonay for 
such a business, and this is another difficulty. Blonay could 
never find Witherspoon unless provided with certain passwords 
W’hich, as they furnish the key to the very dwelling of the 
‘ swamp-fox,* I may not confide wantonly.** 

“Trust me, then, dear Ernest; I will seek him — I will not 
betray the trust, though they make even death the instrument 
for extorting it from my lips.** 

“True heart — dear love — I thank you for this devotion, 
but I must seek an humbler agent.** 

“Who r 

“ Scipio. I will trust him, and you shall counsel him, as I 
am not permitted to see him here, or to go beyond my prison. 
To you will I give these words — to you will I confide all the 
requisitions which I make upon Witherspoon for the object in 
view, and we must then arrange with Blonay to pave the way 
for my flight from the dwelling, holding him, and, through 
him, his base employer, to the idea that I fly upon the fiist 
suggestion of Blonay, having no hope of aid from without/* 


342 


MEI.LTCHAMPE. 


And thus, strong in liis liope of success, and buoyant with 
the promise of an escape from the dangers of that mock trial, 
but real judgment, which had been held up before him, and 
which be regarded with no less earnestness, though with noth- 
ing of the fear of his feminine companion, he detailed to the 
maiden the entire plan which he had formed of flight, and, 
whispering in her ear the passwords which led her through 
every scout and sentry watching around the camp of Marion, 
he left it to her to pencil the message to Witherspoon, which 
he calculated would bring sufficient aid for the service upon 
which he was required. The spirits of Janet rose with the 
task thus put upon her. To be employed for him she loved, 
in peril no less than in trouble, was the supremest happiness 
to a heart so loving and so true as hers. Her quick mind 
readily conceived the tasks before her, and her devoted heart 
led her as quickly to their performance. 


THE TOBY EXULTS IN HOPES OF VENGEANCE. 843 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE TORY EXULTS IN HIS HOPES OF VENGEANCE. 

Janet lost no time in the performance of her duties. Slie 
immediately sought out the half-breed. He lingered about 
the dwelling, and was soon called into her presence. It was 
with no small surprise that he now listened to the determina- 
tion of the maiden, to avail herself, on behalf of her lover, of 
the services of the scout in the very equivocal aid which he 
had been prompted to offer by the tory. His astonishment 
could not be suppressed. 

“It surprises you,” she said, “ but so Mr. Mellichampe has 
determined. He thinks it better to risk all other dangers than 
that of a dishonest trial before bloody judges in the city.” 

The half-breed shook his head. 

“Well, now, it’s mighty foolish ; for, as sure as a gun. Miss 
Janet, the cappin’s ^ighty serious about this matter, and 
there’ll be no chance for the young gentleman, no how. He’d 
better not think of it now, I tell you.” 

“ I thank you, Mr. Blonay — I thank you, I’m sure, for the 
interest you take in me and him ; but, whatever be the danger, 
Mr. Mellichampe is determined upon it, if you’ll only give your 
assistance.’' 

“ Adrat it ! he shall have that, fur as I can go for him. Say 
what I’m to do that’s in reason, and I’ll do it.” 

“ You must procure him some arms for his defence. If there 
is danger, you know, he should be provided witli some weapons 
to meet it.” 

“ Arms ! — a sword p’rhaps — a knife — reckon he’d like pis- 
to^ls too — ” 


344 


MKLLICHAM l*E. 


“ Whatever he can get.” 

“ I’ll try — hut there’s no saying. I’ll clo what I can.” 

“ He desires no more of you. Next, you must find out ex 
actly where Captain Barsfield puts his amhuscade.” 

“ Eh ! — that’s the trap, you mean ?” 

“ Yes — find out that, get the weapons, and at midnight to 
morrow he will be ready to go with you.” 

“To-morrow night — midnight! — well, now. Miss Janet, 
that’ll be a bad time, seeing that ther’ll be a bright moon then.’ 

She paused — hesitated — but a moment after repeated the 
order. 

“ It must be then. He wishes it to be so — he has so deter 
mined.” 

“ Jist as you say, miss. I’m ready — though it’s a might} 
tough sort of business, I tell you ; and the cappiii’s got a ground 
knife for the lad, I reckon. He hates him pretty bad, and 
won’t miss his chance if he can help it.” 

“ Be you true to us, Mr. Blonay; be you true, and I hope 
for the best. Be you true to us, as you would hope for God’s 
blessing on your life hereafter. Take this purse, Mr. Blonay 
— the gift is small, I know, but it will prove to you how grate- 
ful I am for what you have done for me, and be an earnest of 
what I shall give you for your continued fidelity.” 

She put a richly wrought purse of silk into his hands, through 
the interstices of which tlie half-breed beheld distinctly the 
rich yellow of the goodly coin which filled it. It was no part 
of his morality to refuse money on any terms, and he did not af- 
fect any hesitation on the present occasion. It found its way 
readily into a general reservoir, which was snugly concealed 
by his dress, and there became kindred with the guineas which 
Barsfield had bestowed upon him for a very different service. 

Though without doubt intending to be faithful to Janet, and 
distrusting Barsfield on his own account, the gift of the 
maiden stimulated his fidelity, and he seriously, though in his 
own rude and broken manner, attempted to dissuade her from 
the project. Janet heard him patiently, thanked him for his 
counsel, but reiterated the determination of Mellichampe tc 
abide his chance. 


THE TOR^' EXULTS TN HOl’KS OF VEXGEAlfCE. 


345 


“Well — if that s tlie liow,” he exclaimed, concliisivelv, the 
butt of his rifle sinking heavily upon the floor as he spoke — 
“ if that’s the how and he’s bent to take his chance, he must 
go through with it — though I warn you, Miss Janet, there’ll 
he main hard fighting — ” 

“ Be sure you get the weapons,” she said, interrupting him. 

“ I’ll try ; for he’ll want ’em bad, I tell you. I’ll do my 
best, and if so be I can get him out of the sorape, it won’t be 
the guineas, Miss Janet, that’ll make me do it. You’re a lady, 
every inch of you, and I’ll work for yon jist tiie same as if you 
hadn’t gi’n me anything; and — ” in a half-whisper conclu- 
ding the sentence — “ if it comes to the scratch, you see, adrat 
it ’ I won’t stop very long to put it to the cappiirs own head,” 
rend he touched significantly the lock of his rifle. She shud- 
dered slightly, not so much at the action or the words as at 
the dreadful look which accompanied them. 

“ To-morrow I shall see you, then ?” she said, as he was 
about to leave her. “You go now, I suppose, to communicate 
to Captain Barsfield ?” 

“ Yes — off hand. He tell’d me to come to him soon as I’d 
got your answer.” 

“ Do so, Mr. Blonay — and, remember the hour — remember 
the arms !” 

The scout was gone — the die was cast- — and the feelings 
of the woman grew uppermost with his departure. She sank 
into a chair, and was relieved by a flood of tears. 

The intelligence brought hy the half-breed rejoiced the 
heart of tlie tory. 

“And when does he propose to take advantage of your 
offer? What time has he appointed for the flight?” he de- 
manded, eagerly. The scout, more cunning than Janet, had 
his answer : — 

“ That he leaves to me. I’m to git things ready, you see, 
cappin, and when I tells him I’m ready to show the track, he’ll 
set out upon it with me.” 

“ ’Tis well !• You have done excellently, Blonay, and shall 
fare the better for it. I feared that she might be suspicious of 
you: but the case is desperate — she thinks so, at least, and 

15 * 


346 


MELLICHAMPK. 


that is enough. Tarleton and Balfour are not known as mer- 
ciful judges, and Mellichampe is prudent to take any other 
risk," 

The tory spoke rather to himself than to his companion. 
The latter, however, did not suffer him to waste much time in 
unnecessary musing. He put his inquiries with the freedom 
of one confident of his importance. 

“And now, cappin, which track am I to take? You wants 
to fix a sort of trap, and — ” 

“Ay — yes! But you must let me know the hour upon 
ipon which you start, in order that I may prepare beforehand." 

“ Sartain," was the unhesitating reply. Barsfield pro- 
ceeded : — , 

“ The mere departure from the house will be easy enough. 
He must go in safety out of the immediate enclosure. Nothing 
must be done to harm him in close neighborhood of the dwel- 
ling. The sentinel guarding the gallery will be missing from 
the watch at the hour on which you tell me the prisoner is 
disposed to start. Determine upon that as soon as possible, in 
order that I may arrange it. The sentinel at the back-door 
will also be withdrawn, and you will have no difficulty in get- 
ting to the bay in the hollow between the house and the ave- 
nue. Lead him by the bay toward the garden-fence ; follow 
that close until you reach the avenue, and by that time you 
will be relieved of your company, or never !" 

The tone of Barsfield’s voice rose into fierce emphasis as he 
uttered the last words, and the triumphant and bitter hope of 
his malignant heart spoke out no less in the glare of his eyes 
and the movement of his uplifted arm, than in the language 
from his lips. He thus continued : — 

“ Go now and complete your arrangements with the lady. 
Come to me then, and tell me what is determined upon. Be 
prompt, Blonay, and stick to your words, and you shall be 
properly rewarded.” 

The half-breed promised lum freely enough, and left him 
instantly to do as he was directed. The soul of the tory 
spoke out more freely when he was alone. 

“Ay, you shall be rewarded, b«it \vitli a fate like his. 1 


THE TORY EXULTS IN HOPES OF VENGEANCE. 34:7 


should be a poor fool, indeed, to leave such a secret in custody 
like yours.” 

He little knew that the keen thought of the stolid- seeming 
Blonay had seen through his design, and meditated a treach- 
ery less foul, as it had its cause and provocation. 

“ He can not escape me now !” said Barsfield to himself, as 
he paced to and fro among the- trees where he had spoken 
with Blonay. “ Not even Tarleton shall now pluck him from 
my grasp. His doom is written : and she — she, too, shall not 
live for another, who scorns to live for me ! I punish her 
when I put my foot on him. This mockery of a trial, which 
Tarleton has devised to effect his escape, deludes not me. I 
iee through him. He would clear him : he aims at my ruin. 
I see through the drift of this order. His own testimony 
would be brought to hear in behalf of my enemy, and I should 
only he cited to prove that which he would find others to dis- 
prove. I shall disappoint his malice. Mellichampe, by his 
own precipitation, shall disappoint him. His benevolent plan 
to take my enemy from my grasp shall be defeated, and I 
shall yet triumph in his heart’s best blood. Had he not been 
my enemy, he would not have troubled himself with such 
unusual and unbecoming charity. No ! he must glut his own 
passion for revenge and blood whenever his humor prompts 
him, and deny to all others a like enjoyment. He shall not 
deny me — not in this! The doom of Mellichampe is writ- 
ten — his hours are numbered — and, unless hell itself con- 
spires against me, he can escape me no longer !” 


MKLIJCMIAMPK. 


3!48 


CHAPTER XLIl. 

SCIPIO SET ON TRACK. 

Blonay soon made his communication to Janet, and bore 
bio intelligence back to Barsfield. 

“To-morrow night, then, is resolved upon?” 

“ Midnight,” replied the scout, telling the truth, which he 
conld not otherwise avoid, as the sentinel was to be withdrawn 
from the gallery only at the time when Mellichampe was pre- 
pared to sally forth. Had it been possible to conceal the fact, 
Blonay would not have exposed it. , 

“ He lives till then !’ was the fierce but suppressed excU 
rnation of the tory. . - 

“Where do you go now, Mr. Blonay?” he inquired, seeing 
the half-breed about to move away. 

“Well, cappin, I^m jist guine to give a look after my own 
man, seeing that I’ve been working hard enough after your’n.” 

“You are for the swamp, then?” 

“ Well, yes.” 

“ Remember not to delay ; without your presence the pris- 
oner Avill hardly venture on a start.” 

“ I’ll be mighty quick this time.” 

“And let me know all that you can about the ‘fox.’ See 
to his force, for I shall soon be ready to take a drive after 
iiim.” 

The half-breed promised, and soon set out on his journey, 
while Barsfield proceeded exultingly to arrange his murderous 
projects. That night, Janet Berkeley conveyed to Melli- 
champe the particulars of her further progress. 

“Well, dearest, does he give the route we are to take? 
Have you got that'?” — was the first inquiry of the youth. 


SCiriO SKT ON TRACK. 


349 


She repeated the words of Bloiiaj, which detailed the route 
' ill the very language of the tory. 

“This is most important. As we have that, we now know 
what to do. We caK countermine his projects, I trust. We 
can prepare an offset for his ambush which will astound him. 
The villain ! Along the hay, by the fence, and toward the 
mouth of the avenue — his ambush is there: there, then, must 
the struggle come on. Well, well — it must be so. There is 
no retreat now, Janet — there is no help else!” 

“ Oh, Mellichampe I there is retreat — there must be retreat, 
if you really think the ambush lies in that quarter. You must 
take another path, or — ” 

“No, no, Janet — no. Think you, if he designs to murder 
me, that he will not watch my flight? Every step which I 
take from these apartments will be with the eyes of his crea 
tures upon me.” 

“ Then go not, since you will only go to death.” 

“ I will go, Janet — I must. It is my hope, and out of his 
malice I hope to make my security.. Hear me, and under- 
stand his plan. He will assist me forth from his encampnumt 
until I reach its utmost limit, and he will then set upon me. 
To slay me within its boundary would be to incur the suspi- 
cion of foul play on the part of hrs superiors. He only se(“ks 
to avoid that — that is all ; and once having me beyond his 
bounds, and, as it were, beyond his responsibility, he will th.en 
have no scruple to slay me, as he will then have his ready 
reply to any charge of foul practice. What will it' he then 
but the shooting down a prisoner seeking to escape — that 
prisoner under charges, too, of being a spy, and notoriously 
hostile to his master and his cause?” 

“ And yet, dearest Ernest, you will adventure this flight 
even with this apprehension, and so perfect a consciousness of 
it in your mind ?” 

“ Even so, Janet, even so. I think he may be foiled. Next 
to knoAving the game of your enemy is the facility of beating 
him at the play. I think to overmatch him noAV, if my friends 
serve me, as I think they will, and if they are still in the neigli- 
borhood. We must lay ambush against ambush, Ave must op- 


350 


MELLICIIAMI’E. 


pose armed men to armed men, and then, God forget us if we 
play it not out bravely.” 

“ But suppose, dear Ernest, that Scipio finds not the men, 
or any of them.” 

“ I can then defer the flight, Janet : but he will find them ; 
they are even now about us, and so bent to serve me is Wither- 
spoon, that I make no doubt they would attempt to rescue me 
from the clutches of the tory if I were even under strong 
guard on my way to Charleston. They know my danger, 
and will look to it. Witherspoon must be in the neighbor- 
hood — I am sure of it, and — ha! hear you not, my love — 
even as I speak, hear you not that whistle ? far off, slight, but 
yet distinct enough. Hear it iioav again, and again. You 
will always hear it thrice distinctly, and, if you were nigli, 
you could distinguish a slight quivering sound, with whicli 
it diminishes and terminates. That’s one of our signals of 
encouragement, and to my mind it conveys, as distinctly as 
any language, the words, ‘Friends are nigh — friends are 
nigh !” We have a song among us to that effect, written by 
George Dennison, one of our partisans, a fine, high-spirited and 
smart fellow, which I have hummed over to myself a hundred 
times since I have been here, it promises so sweetly to one 
in my condition : — 

“ * Friends are nigh ! despair not. 

In the tyrant’s chain — 

They may fly, but fear not. 

They’ll return again. 

“ * Not more true the season 

Brings the buds and flowei’s. 

Than, through blight and treason, 

Come these friends of ours ’ 

“I believe the assurance. That song has strengthened me. 
that single whistle note, and hear, Janet, hear how it comes 
again, closer and closer, stronger and clearer. That Wither- 
spoon is a daring fellow, and can not be far from the avenue. 
No doubt he is even now gazing down from some tree upon 
the unconscious sentinels. If so, I am safe. He has seen 


SCiriO SET ON TRACK. 


351 


all their positions — all tlieir movements — and has an eye 
and a head that will enable him to note and take advan- 
tage of even the smallest circumstance. You will see !” 

“ Then hurry, dear Ernest, that Scipio may find him even 
now in the neighborhood. Write — write.” 

She stood beside him while he pencilled a scrawl for the 
courier negro, and gave it into her hand. 

“ One thing, Janet,” he exclaimed, as she was about to leave 
him. She returned. He whispered in her ear, 

“ Let him bring me weapons, some weapon, any weapon, 
which may take life, and which he may conceal about him,” 

She said nothing of her directions to Blonay on this very 
subject. He mistook her silence, and his words were intended 
t ) reassure her. 

“ I must not be unarmed, my Janet, if possible. I must have 
something with which to defend myself, or the veriest trumpet- 
er in the troop may destroy me at odds with his own instru- 
ment.” 

'^riie youth wrote briefly his directions to Witherspoon — 
described his situation — his prospect of escape — the route 
which he was to take, and the dangers which attended it. This 
done, Janet immediately sought out Scipio, in whose skill, 
courage, and fidelity, Mellichampe placed the utmost confi- 
dence. Before giving him his instructions, she strove in the 
most earnest language, to impress upon him the necessity of 
the utmost caution. Of this there was little need. Scipio was 
a negro among a thousand ; one of those adroit agents who 
quickly understand and readily meet emergencies; one who 
never could be thrown from his guard by any surprise, and 
who, in the practice of the utmost dissimulation, yet wore upon 
his countenace all the expression of candor and simplicity 
Add to this, that he loved his master and his master’s daughter 
with a fondness which would have maintained him faithful, 
through torture, to his trust, and we have the character of ^ho 
messenger which the urgencies of his situation had determined 
Mellichampe to employ. 

The difficulties in the way of Scipio were neither few nor 
inconsiderable. He was first to make his way, without search 


352 


melltchampp:. 


or iiiterniption, beyond the line of sentinels wliicli Barsfield 
had thrown around the family enclosure. These sentinels were 
closely placed, almost within speaking distance from each 
other, within sight at frequent intervals while going their 
rounds, and changed frequently. Succeeding in this, the negro 
was to go forward to the adjoining woods, and make his way 
on until he happened upon Witherspoon, who was supposed by 
Mellichampe to he in the neighborhood, or some other of the 
men of Marion, who could be intrusted to convey safely the 
paper which he carried, and which, describing Mellichampe’s 
situation and hopes, suggested the plan and agency necessary 
for his deliverance. The difficulty, and, indeed- danger of this 
latter part of Scipio’s performance, was even greater than that 
of passing the tory sentinels, since it was important that his 
missives should fall into the right hands. To be so far de- 
ceived as to place the passwords of Marion’s men and camp in 
other than the true, would be to sacrifice, in all probability, 
the hardy but little troop of patriots who found refuge in tbe 
swamps around. 

Scipio well understood the importance of his trust, and 
needed no long exhortation from his mistress on the subject. 
After hearing her patiently for a while, he at length, with 
some restifPness, interrupted her in the midst of her exhor- 
tations : — 

“ Da’s ’nough, missis, I yerry you berry well ; you no ’casion 
say no’ mo’ ’bout it. Enty I know dem tory ? Ef he git any 
ting out of Scip, be do more dan he fadder and granfadder eb- 
ber ’speck for do. He’s a mean nigger. Miss Janet, can’t trow 
dus’ in the ey6 of dem poor buckrah, for it’s only dem poor 
buckrah dat ebber tu’n tory. Let um catch Scip bu’ning day- 
light. Enty my eye open ? da’s nough. I hab for pass de 
sentry, I know dat, da’s one ting, enty, I hab to do fuss?” 

“ Yes, that is first to be done, Scipio, and you know how 
cl^^e they are all around us. I know not how you will suc- 
ceed.” 

“ Nebber you mind. Miss Jennet ; I know dem sentry ; whay 
he guine git gumption for double up Scip in he turn and fore- 
finger, I wonder ? Da’ tory ain’t born yet for sich ting, and 1 


^ 8CIPI0 SET ON TRACK. 353 

ain’t fraid ’em. W611’ speck I gone tLrongli dem sentiy, I 
catch the clean woods, and I can laugh out, wha’ den V* 

“ Why, then you must look out for Mr. Witherspoon.” 

“ Masser Wedderspoon, why you no call um Tumhrcrew, 
like udder people ? Well, I hah look for um ; ’spose I no f ..’ 
’em, wha’ den ?” 

“ You must look out, then, for some other of Marion’s men , 
and this, Scipio, is the difficulty.” 

“ Wha’ make him difficulty more dan tudder, I wonder ?” 
responded the confident negro. 

“ Because, Scipio, if the passwords get into the possession of 
any of the British or tories — if you happen to mistake and — ’’ 

“ Gor-a’mighty, Miss Jennet, you only now for mak’ ’quaint- 
an’ wid Scipio? You tink I fool — blind like ground-mole, 
and rooting ’long in de ploughed ground widout looking wed- 
der I guine straight or crooked ? You ’spose I don’t know 
tory from gempleman? I hab sign and mark for know ’em, 
jist de same as I know Mass Ernest brand on he cattle from 
old maussa s.” 

“Well, Scipio, I trust in your knowledge and your love for 
me.” 

“Da’s a missis— -da’s a trute, missis, wha’ I say — I ’speck 
if ebberybody bin Hb you like Scip and Mass Mellichampe, 
you git more lub in dis life dan you can ebber carry wid you 
to Heabben. He keep you down from Heabben — da’s a 
God’s trute, missis--so much lub as you git on dis airt’. But 
dis is all noting but talk and cabbage. You mus’ hab meat 
and sarbice — I know dat. I guine — I ready whenebber you 
tell me; but s’pose, when I gone, old maussa call for me. He 
will call for me, I know dat; he can’t do widout me; and he 
bery bex if you no talk to um and tell um Scip gone upon 
transactions and degagements, young missis.” 

“ Don’t let that trouble you, Scip ; I will speak to my father 
when you are going ; but it is not time for you to go yet ; 
something more is to be done, and we must wait until night 
before you can set forth.” 

“ Berry well ; whenebber you say de word, missis, Scip 
teady,” 


354 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


The faithful negro took readily the instructions given him 
in the‘r fullest scope. He comprehended, so far as it was 
t’.'ou^ht advisable to trust him with the scheme, the nature of 
tlie proposed adventure. He was fully informed on all the 
part he himself was required to play, and was prepared to 
communicate freely to the woodman. Advising and imploring 
to the last, the maiden dismissed him from her presence to put 
hi Mself in readiness for his nocturnal journey, with a spirit full 
trembling, and many an inaudible but fervent prayer, from 
* bottom of her heart, to Heaven. 


aw AMP STRATEGICS. 


365 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

SWAMP STRATEGICS. 

Blonay, as we have seen, had proceeded, after leaving the 
tory captain, upon his old mission as the avenger of blood. 
Night after night, day after day, he had gone upon the track 
of his enemy, and, as yet, without success. But this did not 
lessen his activity and hope ; and we find him again, with un 
diminished industry, treading the old thicket which led to the 
camp of Marion. Let us also proceed in the same direction, 
and penetrate the gloomy swamp and dense woodland recess 
which sheltered the little army of the lurking partisan. The 
pomp and circumstance of war — the martial music — the gor- 
geous uniform — the bright armor of a systematic array of 
military power, were there almost entirely wanting. The 
movements of the partisan were conducted without beat of 
drum or bray of trumpet. In the silent goings on of the night 
his movements were effected. Mysterious shadows paced the 
woods amid kindred shadows; and, like so many ghosts troop- 
ing forth from unhallowed graves, the men of Marion sallied 
out in the hour of intensest gloom, for the terror of that many- 
armed tyrant who was overshadowing the land with his legions 

Never was a warfare so completely one of art and stratagem 
as that which Marion carried on. Quick in the perception of 
all natural advantages which his native country presented for 
such a warfare, he was not less prompt in availing himself of 
their use and application. Hardy and able to endure every 
privation and all fatigue, he taught his men to dwell in regions 
where , the citizen must have perished, and to move with an 
alacrity which the slower tactics of European warfare could 
never have conceived of. In his camp the men soon learned 


356 


MKLIJCIIAMPK. 


to convert tlieir very necessities into sources of knowledge and 
of independence. The bitter of the acorn soon ceased to offend 
their appetites and tastes. The difficulties of their progress 
through bushes and briers soon taught them a hardiness and 
capacity to endure, which led them, after no long period of 
initiation, to delight in all the necessities of their situation, 
and to rejoice at the sudden whisper which, at midnight, 
aroused them from their slumbers under the green-wood tree, 
to sally forth by moonlight to dart upon the new-forming camp 
of the marauding tory or unsuspecting Briton. 

It was the morning of that clay on which Blonay had made 
his communication to Barsfield, announcing the acceptance by 
Janet Berkeley of his offer to aid in the escape of Mellichampe. 
The camp of the “ swamp-fox” lay in the stillest repose. The 
spacious amphitheatre Avas filled up with the forms of slumber- 
ing men. The saddle of the trooper formed a pilloAv, con- 
venient for transfer to the back of the noble steed that stood 
fastened in the shelter of another tree close behind him, the 
bridle being above him in the branches. The watchful senti- 
nel paced his round slowly on the edge of the swamp, looking 
silently and thoughtful in the deep turbid waters of the river. 
No word, no whisper, broke the general stillness — and the 
moments were speeding fast on their progress which sh<:)uld 
usher in the dawn. At length the stillness was broken. The 
tramp of a steed beat heavily upon the miry ooze Avhich gir- 
dled the island, and, soon following, the clear challenge of the 
sentry arrested the progress of the approaching horseman. 

“Who goes there?” was the prompt demand. The ansAA^ei 
Avas given. 

“Dorchester!” The scout entered the lines and proceeded 
on foot to the little clump of trees which had been devoted to 
Marion. The new-comer made but little noise ; yet, accus- 
tomed to continual alarms, and sleeping, as it was the boast 
of Marion’s men, with an ear ever open and one foot always in 
stirrup, the sound Avas quite sufficient to raise many a head 
from its pilloAv, and to persuade many an eye to strain through 
the. gloom and shadoAv of all objects around, to catch a glimpse 
of the person, and, if possible, guess the object of his visit. 


SWAMr STKATl-JGICS. 


357 


Here and there a whisper of inquiry assailed him as he passed 
along ; and, half asleep and half awake, hut still thoughtful of 
one leading topic of most interest with him, one well-known 
voice grumbled forth an inquiry after the provision-wagons, 
and growled himself to sleep again as he received no reply. 
A full half-hour, perhaps, had elapsed before the visiter came 
forth from the presence of Marion to the spot of general en- 
campment. Thence he proceeded to a tree that stood by 
itself on the verge of the island, where he found a group of 
three persons huddled up together, and still engaged in a 
slumber which seemed silent enough with all*, though scarcely 
very deep or perfect with any. One of the three started up 
as the person approached, and hastily demanded the name of 
the intruder. The voice of the inquirer was that of Thumh- 
screw, and his gigantic frame was soon uplifted as the respond- 
ent announced himself as Humphries. 

“Come with me, Witherspoon — I want you,” said the 
trooper. 

“ Wait a bit, till I pull up my suspenders, and find iny frog- 
sticker, which has somehow tumbled out of the belt,” was the 
reply. 

A few moments sufficed to enable him to effect both objects, 
and the two emerged from the shelter of the tree together. 
Day was dawning as they gained the skirts of the island 
where Humphries had fastened his horse, and where they 
were, in great part, free from the observation of their comrades, 
who were now starting up from their slumbers on every side. 
When they had reached this point, Humphries, without further 
preliminary, unfolded his business to his companion. 

“ Thumby — old fellow — I’m hunted, and need your help.” 

“Hunted? how — by whom ?” 

“ By a scoundrel that seeks my life — a fellow from Dor- 
chester, named Blonay.” 

“Blonay — Blonay — I never heard that name before.” 

“ Goggle, then ; that’s the nickname he goes by. You’ve 
heard John Davis speak of him. I happened to ride over his 
old mother the time of that brush at Dorchester, when Major 


358 


MEr.LIOHAMPE. 


Singleton got Colonel Walton out of the cart, and he’s been 
hunting me ever since.” » 

“The d — 1! But how could he find you out? how could 
he track you so ?” 

“ That’s the wonder ; but the fellow’s got Indian blood in 
him, and there’s no telling where he can’t go. He’s as keen 
upon trail as a bloodhound.” 

“ Have you seen him ? How do you know he’s on trail V* 

“ I haven’t seen him ? hut I know he’s been after me for 
some time.” And Humphries then reminded the inquirer of 
the pursuit of Blonay from the very skirts of the camp, when, 
to save himself, the half-breed slew his own dog, which had 
led to his detection, and so nearly to his capture. 

“And why do you think that he’s still after you? Don’t 
you think the run that you give him then has pretty nigh 
cured him of his hunt ?” 

“No, no! The scoundrel will never give up the hunt till 
he can see my blood, or I draw his. There’s no help for it ; 
he will hunt me until I set seriously to hunt him.” 

“And you have heard of him lately. Bill?” 

“Ay — ‘heard of him’ — felt him ! Look here.” 

And as he spoke, lifting the cap from his head, he showed 
his comrade the spot through which the passage of the bullet 
was visible enough. Then, putting aside the hair from his 
forehead, he placed the finger of Witherspoon upon the skull, 
along which the hall had made its way. The skiii was razed 
and irritated into a whelk, such as a severe stroke of a whip 
might occasion upon the skin. An eighth of an inch lower, 
and the lead would have gone through the brain. 

“By the etarnal scratch!” exclaimed Witherspoon, as he 
felt and saw the singular effect which the shot had produced, 
“ that, I may say, was a most ticklish sort of a trouble. It 
was mighty close scraping. Bill ; and the fellow seems ‘‘o have 
been in good airnest when he pulled, though it’s a God’s 
marcy he took you to have more head high up than o’ one 
side. Had he put it here now, to the right or to the left, I 
don’t care which, and not so immediately and ambitiously up 
in the centre, he would have mollified your fixings in-mightv 


SWAMP STRATEGICS. 


359 


short order, and the way you’d have tumbled over would be a 
warning to tall men like myself.” 

Humphries winced as much from the remarks of Wither- 
spoon as under the heavy pressure of bis finger, which rambled 
over the wounded spot upon bis bead with the proverbia 
callousness of a regular army-surgeon’s. 

“ ’Tis just as you say, Tbumby,” replied the other, witli 
much good-humor — “a mighty close scrape, and ticklisldy 
nigh. But a miss is good as a mile; and though this sliot 
can’t he considered a miss exactly, yet, as no harm’s done, it 
ma}' very well he counted such. The matter now is, how to 
pre^ ent another chance, and this question leads to a difficulty. 
How did the fellow come to take track upon me so keenly 
from the jump ] and how has he contrived to keep on it so 
truly until now? These are questions that aint so easy to 
answer, and we must find out their answer before we can fall 
on any way to circumvent the varmint. I thought at first 
that he might have got information from some of Barslield’s 
tories ; hut since we’ve been in the swamp they can’t take 
track upon us, and only he has done it; for the general now 
knows that it was this same skunk that showed the hack track 
of the swamp to Tarleton, and that he most certainly found 
out only by following after me. I’ve been thinking over all 
these matters for a spell now of more than ten days, and I can 
make little or nothing out of it; and to say truth, Thumhy, 
it’s no little trouble to a man to know there’s a hound always 
hunting after him, go where he will, in swamp or in thicket, 
on the high-road and everywhere — that never goes aside — 
tnirsting after his blood, and trying all sort of contrivances to 
git at it.” 

“ It’s mighty ugly, sir, that’s clear,” said his companion, 
musing. 

“ Yet, this trouble I’ve known ever since we chased the 
fellow along the hack track, when he cut the throat of hii 
dog, which only an Indian would do, to put us off his own 
trail.” 

“It’s an ugly business, that’s a truth, Humphries; for, not 
to know where one’s enemy is, is to look for a bullet out of 


360 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


e.very bush. It can’t be tliat some of our men have been play 
ing double, and liave let this fellow on track?” 

“No, there’s no reason to think it, for none of them have 
been always able to find me when they wanted to, and we 
know where to look for them always.” 

“It’s mighty strange and hard — and what are you to do. 
Bill ?” 

“You must tell me — I know not what to do,” was the de- 
sponding answer : “ I’ve no chance for my life at this rate, for, 
soon or late, the fellow must git his shot. lie’ll never give up 
hunting me till he does. It’s the nature of the beast, and 
there’s no hope for me until I can put upon his trail, and 
hunt him just as he hunts me. The best scout will then win 
the game and clear the stakes.” 

“ It’s mighty sartin. Bill, that he’s got some string on you 
in partic’lar : you’ve kept too much on the same track.” 

“No — from the moment I found that the fellow was after 
me in the swamp, I’ve been changing every day.” 

“ And still he keeps after you ?” 

“ His bullet tells that.” 

“ It’s mighty strange. Have you had your nag’s hoofs 
trimmed lately 'i’' 

“ No, they don’t need it — they’re shod.” 

“ Shod !” 

“ Yes, in the forefeet.” 

“ Well, now, it’s mighty Yoolish to shoe a horse that’s got to 
travel only in swamp and sand ; but I’d like to look at them 
shoes.” 

“ Come, then.” As they walked, they conversed further on 
the same subject. 

“ Where was them shoes put on ?” inquired Thumbscrew. 

In Dorchester, about three months ago.” 

“And where was this Ingen fellow then ?” 

“I don’t know; somewhere about, I reckon.” 

“ Show me the critter : I’m dub’ous all the mischief lies in 
them shoes.” 

And, following Humphries, Thumbscrew went forward to 
the spot where the horse was tethered. 


SWAM I’ S'l’RAT KG ICS. 


361 


“Lead him ofi, .11 — there, over that soft track — jist a few 
paces. That’ll do.” 

The busy eye of Witherspoon soon caught the little ridges 
left by the crack in the shoe, which had so w'ell conducted the 
pursuit of Blonay. 

“ I guessed as much, Bill, and the murder’s out, you’ve given 
the fellow a sign, and he’s kept trail like a turkey. Look here, 
and here, and here, a better mark would not be wanted by a 
blind man, since his own finger could feel it, even if his eyes 
couldn’t see. There it is, and wdvat more do you want?” 

Humphries was satisfied, no less than his companion. They 
liad indeed discovered the true guide of Blonay in his success- 
ful pursuit, so far, of his destined victim. Nothing, indeed, 
could be more distinct than the impression left upon tlie sand, 
an impression not only remarkable as it was so unusual, but 
remarkable as it occurred upon a small shoe, and seemed inten- 
tionally made to divide it, the fissure forming the ridge making 
a line as clearly distinct upon the shoe, as that made by the 
shoe itself in its entire outline upon the })liable sand. 

“Well,” said Thumbscrew, after the}' had surveyed it for 
several minutes, “ and what are you going to do now ?” 

“ That’s what I’m thinking of, Tliumby, and it’s no easy 
matter yet to determine upon.” 

“ How ! why, what have you to do now but to pull off the 
shoe, and throw the fellow from your haunches, which you 
must do the moment you take him off his track.” 

“ No, no,” coolly responded the other, “ that will be making 
bad worse, Thumby, since to throw him off one track will be 
only to make him hunt out for anotlier, wliicli we may not so 
readily discover. A fellow that really hungers after your 
blood, as this fellow does after mine, ain’t so easily to be 
thrown off as you think. To throw oft’ tliis scent would be 
only to gain a little time, and botch up the business that we 
had better mend. The shoes must stay on, old fellow ; and, 
as we’ve found out that they are guides which he follows, 
why, what hinders that we should make use of them to trap 
him ?” 

“How ?” said Witherspoon, curiously. 


362 


MELLICHAMPE. 


'* Easy enoiigl), Tliumby, if I’ve got a friend in tlie world 
who’s willing to risk a little trouble, and perhaps a scuffle, to 
help me out of the hound’s teeth.” 

“ Gimini ! Bill Humphries, you don’t mean to say that you — 
ain’t been my friend, and that I ain’t yours ? Say the word, 
old fellow, and show your hand, and if I ain’t your partner in 
the worst game of old-sledge you ever played, with all trumps 
agin you, and a hard log to set on, and a bad fire-light to play 
by, then don’t speak of me ever again when your talk happens 
to run on Christian people. Say the word, old fellow, and I’m 
ready to help you. How is it to be done ? what am I to do ?” 

“ Take my track also, follow the shoe, but take care to give 
me a good start. I will ride on the very route where I got the 
bullet.” 

“ What ! to get another ?” 

“ No. I will ride in company, and Blonay is quite too cun- 
ning to risk a shot, with the chance of having his own head 
hammered the next minute by my companion, even if he tum- 
bles me.” 

“ I see 1 I see ! He will be on your track, and will follow 
you, as he has done before, in hope to get another chance. 
That’s it, eh ? • 

“ Yes, he will not be easily satisfied.- Nothing but his blood 
or mine will satisfy any such varmint as this half-breed, who 
takes after the savages, from whom he comes half way. He i 
will be on the old ground which he’s travelled so long, and i 
that I’ve travelled ; and he will keep close about me, day hy j 
day, and month after month, and year after year, until h (3 gets i 
his chance for a sure shot, and then the game’s up, and he’ll I 
not rest quietly before. I know it’s the nature of the beast, j 
and so I’m sure of my plan if you only follow it up as I show | 
you, and as I know you’re able to do easy enough.” { 

“ I’m ready, by gum. Bill. You shan’t want a true hear* 4 
and a stiff hand in the play on your side, so long as Tbuinb 
screw can help a friend and hurt an enemy. I’m ready — saj* * 
the word — the when and the how — and here’s your man ” 

“ Thank’ee, Tliumby, I knew I shouldn’t have to ax twicf ^; 
and so now listen to mo.” . " l 


SWAMP STRATEGICS. 


363 


“ Crack away.” 

“ I set off in two hours for the skirts oi Barsfield’s camp, 
where I'm to put a few owls who shall roost above him. After 
that I take the back track into the swamp, and John Davis 
and young Lance will keep along with n\^e. I pretty much 
Suess that this fellow Blonay will not let half an hour go by, 
after I've passed him, before he gets upon trail somewhere or 
other, and fastens himself up in some bush or hummock, wait- 
ing a chance at me when he finds I’m going back. If my cal- 
culation be the right one, then all you’ve got to do is to take 
the trail after me, keeping a close look-out right and left, for 
the fresh track of an Indian pony. If you see that little bul- 
let foot of a SAvamp-tacky freshly put down in the swamp or 
sand after mine, be sure the skunk’s started.” 

“ I see, I see.” 

“Well, when you’ve once got his track, we have him. If 
he finds he’s got some one on his skirts, he’ll go aside, and 
you’ll lose his trail, to be sure ; but you’ll know then he’s either 
on one side or ’toder in the woods about you'; and all you’ve 
got to do is to ride ahead a bit and go into the bush too.” 

“ Good, by gimini !” 

“What then ? Soon as he finds all things quiet, he’ll com? 
out of the hush and take up my trail as he did before ; and, if 
you git a good place to hide in, so as to be concealed and yet 
to watch the road, you can’t help seeing when he goes ahead.’ 

“ That’s true ; but suppose he goes into the bush again, wha< 
must I do then 

“Just Avhat you’ve done before, the very thing, until he gen 
to the bayou that opens the door to the swamp. If you can 
track him that far, you can track him farther; for av hen he 
once gets there he’ll be sure to go into hiding in some corner 
or other where he knows I must pass, waiting the chance to 
crack at me again.” 

“ Yes, yes ! And I’m to try and find out his holloAv ? I see, 
I see. It ain’t so hard, after all, for I’m a very bear in the 
swamp, and can go through a cane-brake Avith the best of them. 
We shall have the skunk. Bill, there’s no two ways about it 
If he can keep the track of a horseshoe through mud and 


364 


MELLICHAMPE. 


mire for a month, hunting an enemy, ’tvvont be very hard for 
me to keep it too, helping a friend : and though, between 
us. Bill — I’m mighty conflustered about Airnest, and that 
d — d tory Barsfield, and what to do to help the lad out of his 
hobbles, yet I’m not.guine to let this matter stand in the 
way of yours. I’ll go neck and shoulders for you, old fellow, 
and here’s a rough fist on it.” 

A hearty gripe testified the readiness of the one to assist 
his friend, and the warm acknowledgments of the other. The 
two then proceeded to make their arrangements for the prose- 
cution of a scheme so truly partisan. In this afiair it may 
be proper that we should attend them. 


THE COLD TRAIL. 


305 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE COLD TRAIL. 

The half-breed that morning had taken a stand upon the 
road side to which he had been long accustomed. The route 
was one frequently trodden by his enemy. This fact Blonay 
had ascertained at an early period in his pursuit, and here, day 
after day, had he watched with a degree of patient quietude 
only to be comprehended by a reference to the peculiar blood 
which was in him. The instincts of the Indian character were 
his instincts. Hardily to endure, stubbornly to resist, perse- 
veringly to prosecute his purpose — that purpose being a re- 
venge of wrong and indignity — all these seem to have been 
born within him at his birth, and to have acquired a strength 
corresponding with that of his continued growth and accumu- 
lating vigor. Such instincts are scarcely to be controlled even 
by education — the education which he had received had only 
made them more active and tenacious. 

The half-breed had little hope, on the present occasion, to 
meet again with his enemy. The attempt which he had re- 
cently made on the life of Humphries, and which he thought 
to have entirely failed, would, he believed, have so alarmed 
the trooper as to have impelled him to seek another route, or, 
at least, have prompted him to the precaution of taking com- 
panions with him when he again rode forth. It was with a 
faint hope, therefore, that he now resumed his place. On the 
ensuing night he was to effect the escape of Mellichampe, the 
successful prosecution of which attempt would, he doubted not, 
result in raising for him a new enemy in the person of the tory 
captain. About the issue of this adventure he had various mis- 
givings. He questioned the practicability of success, as he 


•366 


MELLTCHAMPE. 


knew nothing of the design of MelHcliampe, and of the despatch 
which had been sent by Scipio. He was certain that Melli- 
' champe would he slain, but he concurred in the supposed pref- 
erence which the youth gave to the mode of dying, in the 
stroke or shot of sudden combat, rather than by the degrading 
cord. He was pledged to serve the maiden, and to comply 
with her wishes was the best mode in his estimation. 

He had concealed his pony, and covered himself by the thick 
umbrage around him, in his old retreat, when the sound of ap- 
proaching horses called for his attention. With a feeling of 
gratified surprise he saw his enemy. But he was accompanied : 
John Davis rode on one side of Humphries, and Lance Frarnp- 
ton on the other — all well mounted, and carrying their rifles. 

“ How easy to shoot him now,” thought the half-breed — “ I 
couldn’t miss him now — but it’s no use and his rifle lay un- 
lifted across his arm, and he suffered the three to pass by in 
safety. To forbear was mortifying enough. The party rode by 
within twenty yards, seemingly in the greatest glee, laughing 
and talking. A less cool and wary enemy than Blqnay, hav- 
ing a similar pursuit, could not have forborne. The temptation 
was a trying one to him ; but, when he looked about in the woods 
around him, and saw how easily they might be penetrated by 
the survivers, even if he shot Humphries, he felt convinced 
that the death of his enemy would be the immediate signal 
for his own. His revenge was too much a matter of calcula- 
tion — too systematic in all its impulses — to permit him to do 
an act so manifestly disparaging his Indian blood, and his own 
desire for life, and his habitual caution. The cover in which 
he stood, though complete enough for his concealment while it 
remained unsuspected, was otherwise no shelter ; and, subduing 
his desire, he quietly and breathlessly kept his position, till his 
ears no longer distinguished the tramp of their departing horses. 

It was then that the half-breed rose from his place of shelter. 
Gliding back to the deeper recess where his pony had been 
hidden, he was soon mounted, and prepared to take the track 
after his enemy. 

He’s gone to place the sentries and send out the scouts. 
He won’t have ’em with him by the time he gits to the swamp, 


THE COLD TKAIL. 


367 


and I’ll take the short track at the bend and git there before 
him. Adrat it, that I should have missed him as I did !” 

Thus muttering, he left the woods, and was soon pacing, with 
the utmost caution, upon the road which had been taken b)? 
his enemy. 

Marking his time duly, and heedful of every object upon the 
road, our friend Witherspoon might have been seen, a little 
while after, going over the same ground with no little solemnity. 
IIs had carefully noted the several tracks made by the horse 
of Ilumphries, along with those of his companions, and, step 
by step, had kept on their trail until he reached the spot at 
which, emerging from the place of his concealment, the wayx 
laying Blonay had set off also in pursuit. The observant eye 
of Witherspoon, accustomed to note every sign of this descrip- 
tion, soon detected the track made by the hoof of the animal 
which Blonay bestrode. He alighted from his horse, and care- 
fully examined it; then, entering the woods on that side from 
which the pony had evidently emerged, he traced out the 
course of the half-breed by the crushed grass and disordered 
foliage, until he found, not only where the pony had been kept, 
but the very branch to which he had been tethered. The 
brancli was broken at the end, and the bridle, having been 
passed over it, by its friction, had chafed a little ring around 
the bark. From this spot he passed to that in which Blonay 
himself had been hidden on the roadside when Humphries had 
ridden by. His exclamation, as he made this discovery, was 
natural and involuntary — 

“ Girnini, if Bill had only know’d it, how he could have wound 
up the animal! Only to think — here he squatted, not twenty 
steps off, and a single leap of a good nag would ha’ put a hoof 
on each of his shoulders ! But it ain’t all a clear track for 
him yet. Push is the word ; and, if he don’t keep wide awake, 
he’ll larn more in the next two hours than he’ll ever understand 
in a week after. Come, Button, we’ll know this place next 
time in case we have to look after the Indian agen.” 

He resumed his course, and with something more of rapidity, 
as he now discovered that the game was fairly afoot. The 
track was distinctly defined for him; and, wherever the foot 


MELLICHAMPE. 


3^S 


of Hiimpliries’ liorse had been set down, there, with unerring 
certainty, immediately behind, was tliat of the pony. Excited 
by the prospect of the encounter which he now promised him- 
self, he began unconsciously to accelerate the movements of 
his horse, until he gained rapidly, without knowing it himself, 
upon the footsteps of the rider he pursued. 

Blonay had not, however, laid aside his habitual wariness, 
and the precipitancy of Witherspoon betrayed liis approach 
to the watchful senses of the half breed. He had himself 
gained so much upon Humphries as to hear the sound of his 
horse’s tread, and his quick ear soon detected the correspond- 
ing sound from the feet of Witherspoon’s horse in the rear. 
He paused instantly, until assured that his senses had not de- 
ceived him, and silently then he elided into the bushes on one 
side of the road, availing himself, of a deep thicket which 
spread along to the right. Nor, having done this, did he pause 
in a single spot and simply seek concealment. He took a 
backward course for a hundred yards or more, and awaited 
there in shelter, watching a single opening upon the road, 
which he knew must be darkened by the figure of the ap- 
proaching person. 

Witherspoon rode on, passed the designated spot, and was 
recognised by the outlier. But, as it was not the policy of 
Blonay to be discovered now by any, he did not come forth and 
remind our friend of their former meeting on the highway. The 
partisan kept on his way until he missed the track of the pony. 
There was that of Humphries plainly enough ; but that of the 
pony was no longer perceptible. He checked his own steed, 
and rebuked himself for his want of caution. He saw that he 
must now change his game ; and, and without stopping to 
make an examination which might startle Blonay into suspi- 
cion — for he knew not but that the half-breed was even 
then looking down upon him from some place of safe conceal- 
ment — he rode on a short distance farther, and then sank, like 
Blonay, into the cover of the very same woods, though on the 
side opposite to that which had given shelter to the latter. 
Here he dismounted, hid his horse in a recess sufficiently fai 
in the rear to prevent any sounds which he might utter from 


THE COLD TRAIL. 


369 


reaching any ear upon the road, and, advancing to a point 
sufficiently nigh to coininand a view of passing objects, sought 
a place of concealment and watch for himself. This he soon 
found, and, like a practised scout, he patiently concentrated 
all his faculties upon the task he had* undertaken, an*d, with 
all the energies of his mind, not less than of his body, prepaied 
for the leap which he might be required to take, he lay crouch 
ing in momentary expectation of his prey. 

Here he waited patiently, for the space of half an hour, 
in the hope of seeing the pursuer go by. But he waited in 
vain : the road remained undarkened by a solitary shadow — 
his ears were unassailed by a solitary sound. The half- 
breed well knew what he was about. Familiar with the 
course usually taken by Humphries, he did not now care to 
tread directly upon his footsteps, particularly as such a progress 
must have placed him upon the same road with that taken 
by the stranger, whose unlooked-for coming had driven him 
into shelter. It was enough that he could reach, a mile 
above, the narrow track which, darting aside from the main 
road, led obliquely into the swamp. There he knew he should 
again come upon the track of Humphries, and with that hoj)e 
he w as satisfied. Keeping the woods, therefore, on the side 
V hich he had entered, he stole along among the shadows of 
the silent pines sufficiently far to be both unseen and unheard 
by those upon the road ; and while the scout lay snugly 
watching for him in the bush, the subtle halbbreed had gone 
ahead of him, and was now somewhat in advance, though still 
moving slowly between him and Humphries. Witherspoon 
was soon convinced that this must be the ense, and, throwing 
aside his sluggishness, he prepared to resume his progress. 

“ The skunk will double round us after all,” he muttered to 
himself, “if I don’t keep a better lookout. But he shahi’t. 
There’s onlj' one way. It won’t do to go on sich a trail on 
the back of a nag that puts down his foot like an elephant. 
Shank’s mare is the only nag for this hunt, and you must keep 
quiet u here you are. Button, till I get back, I can do well 
enough for a while without you, and you must be reasonablei 
and be rpiiet, too.” 


16 * 


370 


MELLICIIAMPK. 


Tlius addressing liis horse, lie tightened the rope Avhich 
fastened him to the tree, and prepared to continue the pursuit 
on foot. 

“ I can walk jist as fast as that ’ere pony can trot, at any 
time, and the skunk that straddles him is too cunning to go 
fast now. I can outwalk him, I know; and, if he could hear 
Button’s big foot, it’s more than his ears can do to hear mine.” 

Thus reasoning, tlic scout left his steed, pressed forward 
upon the highway, and, with rapid strides, pushed for the 
recovery of lost ground. 

Blonay, meanwhile, had gained a sight of the person he pur- 
sued. Humphries had lingered behind with this very object. 
As soon as the half-breed heard the sounds of feet above him, 
and so near the swamp, he sank into the deepest cover and 
began to prepare himself. He first alighted from his pony, 
which he led as far into the shelter of the woods as seemed 
advisable. His own concealment was more easily effected 
while on foot than when mounted, and the proximity of his 
enemy rendered every precaution necessary. The sudden 
rush of a fleet steed, like that bestrode by Humphries, would 
have brought the latter upon him long before he could conceal 
himself, if he happened to be mounted at the time. On foot 
he pressed forward until he beheld the three and distinguished 
their movements. Humphries was in the rear, Davis and 
Frainpton were about to enter the swamp, and, indeed, had 
already done so. 

It was then that Blonay urged the pursuit most rapidly ; 
and, with rifle ready to be lifted to his shoulder the moment 
the opportunity should offer for its use, he leaped cautiously, 
in a circuitous route, from cover to cover, and in the great- 
est silence, in order to secure a position which might com- 
mand the pond, through which he well knew the partisans 
must go before entering the swamp. He was the more stimu- 
lated in this object, as he thought it not improbable that, as 
the companions of Humphries were ahead of him, they might 
go so far forward as to throw the entire length of the pond, 
and the intervening- thicket (which, thrusting itself up from 
one side of it, and running far out into^ its centre, almost en- 


THE COLD TRAIL. 


371 


tirely concealed its opposite termination), between themselves 
and the enemy he pursued. If this had been the case, his 
opportunity to shoot down Humphries, and make his escape 
before the other two could possibly return, would be complete. 

All these conjectures and calculations were instantaneous, 
and th« result of his natural instinct. The image of his suc- 
cess rose vividly before him as he pressed forward to secure a 
fair shot at the figure of which he momently caught glimpses 
through the foliage ; and, but for the heedful thought of 
Humphries — with whom the present was the life and thought- 
absorbing affair — the opportunity might have been won by 
the vindictive pursuer who desired it. The partisan was suf- 
ficiently observant, however, of all these chances. He knew 
not that his enemy was at hand, and, indeed, did not think it; 
but he omitted no precaution, and clung close to his compan- 
ions. They moved forward together into the pond ; and Avhen 
Blonay reached the edge of it, they had emerged through its 
waters, and, gaining the opposite side, were out of his reach 
and sight, and in safety for the present. 

Blonay was a patieut enemy — no less patient than perse- 
vering. He sank back into cover, and prepared to wait, as he 
had often done before, for the return of his victim. 

“He goes to place his scouts — he will come back alone,” 
were the muttered words of the half-breed ; and, unconscious 
that he himself was an object of as close a watch as that 
which he maintained on Humphries, he coolly sought his place 
of rest behind a little clump of cane and a thicket of close 
brier, which formed much of the undergrowth among the 
gigantic cypresses spreading around him, and formed no unfit- 
ting fringe for the edge of tha swamp. 

Meanwhile, Witherspoon had not been idle or unobservant. 
He had pushed forward after Blonay with precautions similar 
to those which the latter had practised ; and, with a speed 
accelerated in accordance with the due increase of confidence 
arising from the absence of his horse, he had contrived to gain 
a point of observation which commanded the entrance to the 
swamp quite as soon as Blonay, and just wdien Humphries and 
his companions were about to pass into the pond. At first 


872 


MELLICHAMPE. 


he saw none but the three companions ; but, even while he 
gazed upon them from a place of shelter by the wayside, and 
at the distance of a few hundred yards, he became conscious, 
though yet without seeing the object, of the approach of some 
one on the opposite hand. The three disappeared from his 
sight, and, as the last sounds reached his ears of the tread of 
their horses as they plashed through the turbid waters of the 
creek, he distinctly beheld the person of a man moving hur- 
riedly along its margin. In the next glance he saw that it 
was the half-breed. 

“I have him — here’s at you!” he cried to himself, as he 
raised his rifle. But, before he could pull trigger, his victim 
had disappeared. 

Vexed and mortified, he was compelled to squat down in 
quiet in order to avoid being seen; and, hiding himself closely 
behind a bush, he waited and watched for a second opportu 
nity. But this he was not destined to get- so readily. While 
he looked he saw the whole line of canebrake, on the edge of 
'the lagune, slightly agitated and waving at the tops as if 
under a sudden gust, but he saw no more of the person he pur- 
sued. In a little while he heard the feet of the returning 
horses once more plunging through the pond ; and again did 
he see the cane-tops waving suddenly in front of a grove of 
huge cypresses, and as suddenly again subsiding into repose. 
Witherspoon could see no more of the enemy, and, half bewil- 
dered, he awaited the return of Humphries, to unfold to him 
what he knew and how he had been disappointed. 

Blonay, meanwhile, though maintaining a solicitous regard 
to his, own concealment, kept a no less heedful watch upon the 
progress of his enemy. He looked out from his cover upon 
the return of Humphries ; but, as he continued to be still accom 
panied by Davis and Frampton, there was evidently no oppor 
tuuity for prosecuting his purpose. He sank back in silence 
to his place of shelter among the canes and. cypresses. 

Witherspoon had again noted the disturbance among the 
cane-tops, but he failed to see the intruder. It was with no 
small mortification that he unfolded to Humphries, as he came, 
the unsuccessful results of his watch. 


THE COLD TRAIL. 


373 


“ He is tliere, somewhere among the canes ; but, d — ii the 
nigger, you might as well look for a needle in a haystack as 
after him in such a place as that.” 

“ But we will look for him there !” cried Humphries, dash- 
ing foi*ward to the designated region. The rest followed him 
in several directions, completely encircling in their hunt the 
supposed place, of Blonay’s concealment. 

He looked upon their search in composure and with scornful 
indifference; but he remained quiet all the while. 'They 
hunted him with all the passion of hatred, disappointment, and 
anxiety. They penetrated through brake and through brier; 
they tore aside the thickly-wedged masses of cane-twigs and 
saplings; traversed bog -and water; pressed through bushes; 
and encircled trees — searching narrowly every spot and ob- 
ject, in the locality designated by Witherspoon, which might 
conceal a man : but they labored in vain. They did not find 
the fugitive. Yet his traces everywhere met their eyes. His 
footsteps were plainly perceptible on one or two miry banks ; 
but the whole neighborhood was half-covered with water, and 
the traces which he made were accordingly soon lost. For 
more than an hour did they continue the search, until they 
wandered from the spot entirely. Tlie quest was hopeless ; 
and, vexed at his disappointment, Humphries was compelled 
to give up the pursuit in the performance of other duties. 
They had scarcely left the ground, however, before Blonay 
came forth from his place of concealment — the body of a hol- 
low cypress, divided from the canebrake by a narrow creek, 
in a portion of which it grew. 

Adrat it ! they thought to catch a weasel asleep, did they 1 
I reckon it won’t do this time. And now, I s’pose — ” 

T’he words were interrupted, and the soliloquy discontinued. 
The fugitive stooped to the earth as if to listen, then imme- 
diately hurried back through the shallow water, and into thi 
tree where he had previously hidden himself. 


874 


MEI.rjCilAMVK. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

HJMPHRIES TREES THE HALF-BREED. 

He liar] barely attained Lis place of shelter when Hum- 
phries returned. He returned alone. He had dismissed his 
comrades as no longer essential to his search, and had deter- 
mined upon stealing hack to the neighborhood where the half- 
breed had been last seen, placing himself in a position to 
watch him, and lingering till the latest possible moment, in the 
hope to see him emerge. The thoughts of Humphries were of 
the most annoying description. He reflected bitterly on the 
chances now before him, not only of his enemy’s escape, but 
of his own continued danger. The whole labor of pursuit 
and stratagem was again to be taken over ; and with this dis- 
advantage, that, as they had now alarmed the half-breed, who 
must have been conscious of their recent pursuit and search, it 
would be necessary to adopt some new' plan of action, and 
contrive some new scheme, before they could possibly hope to 
entrap him. In the meantime, to wdiat danger was his threat- 
ened victim not exposed, since, while effecting nothing toward 
his owm security, the recent adventure must only contribute to 
the increased wariness of his en^my. 

Full of these bitter and distracting tlioughts, he took post 
upon a little hillock, which rose slightly above the miry sur- 
face which spread all around him. A huge cypress, rising up 
from a shallow creek, stood like a forest monarch directly 
before his eyes. The cane, in which he had pursued so hope- 
less a search, spread away in a winding line beyond the 
creek, and upon its slightly-waving surface his eyes w^ere fixed 
in intense survey. 

.“It was there — there he must be still,” he said to himself, 


HUMPHRIES TREES THE HALF-BREED. 


376 


as lie looked upon its dense inclosure. “ He will come out 
directly, when he thinks me quite gone, and when he can 
hear nothing. I will wait for him, though I wait till sunset.” 

He had taken a place of watch which gave him a full view 
of the canebrake and the scattered cypresses before it, while 
his position was concealed at the same time, by a cluster of 
bushes, from any one emerging from the region he surveyed. 
Here, squatting low, he prepared his rifle, having carefully 
prepared an opening for it through the bushes, whence its 
muzzle might be projected at a moment’s warning; and, with 
eyes sharpened by a feeling of anxiety little short of despera- 
tion, he lay quietly, the agent of a deadly hate and a shudder- 
ing fear, watchful for that opportunity which should gratify 
the one passion, and silence all the apprehensions of the other. 

While he watched in quiet, he heard a slight noise imme- 
diately at hand. Something reached his ears like the friction 
of bark. His breathings became suppressed in the intensenesa 
of his anxiety. He felt that his enemy was near him, and his 
hope grew into a gnawing appetite, which made his whole 
frame tremble in the nervous desire which it occasioned. Tlie 
noise was repeated a little more distinctly — distinctly enough, 
indeed, to indicate the direction from which it came. His 
glance rested upon the aged cypress which stood immediately 
before him. 

** Could he be there V* was his self-made inquiry. The tree 
stood in the water. The hollow did not seem large enough 
above the creek to admit the passage of a human body. “ Yet 
it might be so.” He regretted, while he gazed, that they had 
not examined it; and he regretted this the more as he now 
sav/ that the upper edges of the hollow above the creek 
were still wet, as if they had been splashed by the hurried 
passage of some large body into the tree. He kept quiet, 
however, while these thoughts were going through his mind, 
and determined patiently to wait events. 

“ He must come out at last,” was his muttered thought, “ if ‘ 
he is there, and I can wait, I reckon, jist as long as he.” 

Was it an instinct that prompted him to raise his eyes at this 
pionient, from the hollow at the foot of the cypress to the shaft 


376 


Mia.LlCHAMPE. 


of the tree, as it stretched away above ? He did so ; and, in 
the sudden glance which he gave, the glare of a wide and 
well-known eye met his own, staring around, from a narrow 
and natural fissure in the stupendous column some ten feet 
from its base. With a howl of positive delight he sprang to 
his feet, and the drop of the deadly instrument fell upon the 
aperture. But, before he could spring the lock or draw the 
trigger, the object had disappeared. 

The half-breed, for it was he, had sunk down the moment 
Humphries met his eye, and was no more to be seen. But he, 
was there ! That was the consolation of his enemy. 

“He is there, I have him!” he cried aloud. No answer 
reached him from within. Humphries bounded into the water 
to the hollow at the bottom of the tree, through which the 
slender form of Blonay had resolut^y compressed itself. He 
thrust his hand into the opening, and endeavored, by grasping 
the legs of the half-breed, to drag him down to the aperture ; 
but he failed entirely to do so. A bulging excrescence on the 
tree, a knob or knee, as it is called, within, served the be- 
leaguered man as a place of rest; and upon this, firmly 
planting his feet, no effort of his enemy could possibly dis- 
lodge him. To thrust his rifle up the hollow, and shoot as he 
stood, was the next thought of Humphries ; but the first at- 
tempt to do this convinced him of the utter impracticability 
of the design. The opening, though sufficiently large for the 
entrance of a body so flexible as that of a man, was yet 
too short to admit of the passage of a straight, unyielding 
shaft of the rifle’s length, unless hy burying the instrument 
in the water to a depth so great as would bring the lock 
much below it. The difficulty was a novel one, and for a mo- 
ment the practised woodman was at fault. What was he to 
do ? His enemy was within his reach, yet beyond his control 
and might as well be a thousand miles off. To leave tl e 
tree, to go in search of his companions, or to procure an axe 
to fell it, would only be to afford an opportunity for tlie 
egress and escape of his victim. This v,'as not to be thought 
upon. He seized his knife, and though assured that by its 
use he could do no more than annoy the half-breed, situated 


nUMPIIRIKS TREKS TFIE HALF-BREED. 377 

where lie was, and could by no possibility inflict a vital injury, 
he yet proceeded to employ it. 

“ It may bring him out,” he muttered to himself, “ it’ll vex 
and bring him out.” 

He thrust the weapon up the hollow, and struck right and 
left at the feet and ankles of the inmate. But with the first 
graze of the weapon upon his legs Blonay drew them up 
contracting his knees, an effort which the immense size of 
the tree, the hollow of which might have contained three men 
v/ith ease, readily enabled him to make. Humphries soon saw 
the fruitlessness of his effort with the knife, and, seemingly, 
the fruitlessness of any effort which he could then make. 
In his rage, exasperated at the vicinity of his foe, yet of 
his seeming safety, he shouted aloud, in the hope to bring 
back his departed companions. A fiendish chuckle sounded 
scornfully from within the tree, and seemed to taunt him with 
his feebleness and fury. He renewed his efforts, he struck 
idly with his knife within the hollow, until, burying the blade 
in one of the projecting knobs, it snapped off short at the 
handle, and was of no more service. Furious at these re- 
peated failures, and almost exhausted by his efforts, he poured 
forth curses and denunciations in the utmost profusion upon 
the unheeding and seemingly indifferent half-breed. 

“ Come out like a man,” he cried to him, in an idle chal- 
lenge ; “ come out and meet your enemy, and not, like a 
snake, crawl into your hollow, and lie in waiting for his heel. 
Come out, you skunk, and you shall have a fair fight, and 
nobody shall come between us. You shall have your distance 
jist as you want it, and it shall be the quickest fire that 
shall make the difference of chances between us. Come out, 
you spawn of a nigger, and face me, if you’re a man.” 

Thus did he run on in his ineffectual fury, and impotently 
challenge an enemy who was quite too wary to give up the 
vantage-ground which he possessed. The same fiendish 
chuckle which had enraged the trooper so much before, again 
responded to his challenge from the tree, again stimulated 
him to newer efforts, which, like the past, were unavailing. 
The half-breed condescended no other reply. He gave no 


878 


MKLLICHAMPI5. 


response whatsoever to the denunciations of his enemy ; 
but, coolly turning himself occasionally in his spacious sheath, 
he now and then raised himself slightly upon his perch, and 
placing his mouth abreast 0/ the upper aperture in the tree, 
gratified himself by an occasional inhalation of the fresh 
air — a commodity not so readily aflPorded by his limited ac- 
commodations. 

Humphries, meanwhile, almost exhausted by his own fury 
not less than by its hopeless labors, had thrown himself upon 
the bank in front of the opening, watching it with the avid- 
ity of an eagle. But Blonay gave him no second chance for 
a shot while he lay in this position. He watched in vain. 
Even as he lay, however, a new plan suggested itself to 
his mind, and one so certain of its effect, that he cursed 
himself for his stupidity that did not suffer him to think of it 
before. With the thought, he started to his feet. Detached 
masses of old decaying trees, the remains of many a forest 
of preceding ages, lay scattered around him. Here and there 
a lightwood knot, and here and there the yet undecayed 
branch, the tribute of some still living pine, to the passing 
hurricane, lay contiguously at hand. He gathered them up 
with impetuous rapidity. He collected a pile at the foot of 
the cypress, and prepared himself for the new experiment. 
Selecting from this pile one of the largest logs, he thrust it 
through the water, and into the hollow of the tree, seeking 
to wedge it between the inner knobs on which the feet of 
Blonay were evidently resting. But the half-breed soon be- 
came aware of the new design, which he opposed, as well as 
he could, with a desperate effort. He saw, and was instantly 
conscious of, his danger. With his feet he baffled for a long 
time the efforts of his enemy, until, enraged at length, Hum- 
phries seized upon a jagged knot of lightwood, which he 
thrust against one of the striving legs of the half-breed, and em- 
ploying another heavy knot as a mallet, he drove the wedge 
forward unrelentingly against the yielding flesh, which was 
torn and lacerated dreadfully by the sharp edges of the wood. 
Under the sudden pain of the wound, the feet were drawn 
up, and the woodman was suffered to proceed in his design. 


HUMPHRIES 'FREES THE HAEF-15BEEI). 


8Ti) 

The miserable wretch in the tree, thus doomed to ])e b.iried 
alive, was now willing to come to terms with his enemy. His 
voice hollowly reached the ears of his exulting captor, as he 
agreed to accept his terms of fight, if he would suffer him 
to come down. But the reply of Humphries partook some- 
what of the savage nature of his victim. 

“No, no ! you d — d skunk, you shall die in your hole, like 
a varmint as you are ; and the cypress shall be your coffin, 
as it has been your house.” 

The voice within muttered something of fight. 

“ It’s too late for that,” was the reply. “ I gave you the 
chance once, and you wouldn’t take it. It’s the worse for 
you, since you don’t get another. Here you shall stay, if 
hard chunks and solid lightwood can keep you, until your yel- 
low flesh rots away from your cursed bones ! Here you stay 
till the lightning rips open your coffin, or the hurricane in Sep- 
tember tumbles you into the swamp.” 

The voice of Blonay was still heard, though more and more 
feebly, as the hard w'ood was driven into the hollow — mass 
wedging mass — until all sounds from within, whether of plead- 
ing or defiance, seemed to die away into a plaintive mnrinur, 
that came faintly through the thickening barrier, and was 
almost unheard by Humphries, as, with the knotty lever 
which he employed, he sent the heavy wedges, already firm 
enough, moi-e thoroughly into the bosom of the tree. 

His labor was at length completed. The victim was fas- 
tened up securely, beyond his own efforts of escape. He 
was effectually sealed up, and the seal could only be taken 
off by a strong hand from without. Where, in that deep forest 
recess, wild and tangled, could succor find him out? What 
hope that his feeble voice could reach the ears of any pas- 
sing mortal ! There was no hope but in the mercy of hi.s 
enemy, and of that the captive and doomed man could have 
no hope, even if he pleaded for his life — an idea that never 
once entered into his mind. 

His doom was written, and the partisan paused before the 
tree, and his eye rested on the aperture above. The body 
of the imprisoned man was heard to writhe about in his 


M KlJJOTIAMl'E. 


:-^8o 

cell. ITuinpliries stepped bac-k, tlie Letter to survey tlie apev 
lure. In another moment he beheld the blear eyes of his vic- 
tim peering forth upon him, and, firm and fearless as he was, 
he shuddered at their expression. Their natural ugliness was 
enlarged and exaggerated by the intensity of his despair. 
Before, they had been but disgusting — they were now frightful 
to the beholder. As he looked upon him, the first feeling of 
Humphries was -to lift his rifle and shoot him ; but, as tlie 
weapon was elevated, he saw that the half-breed no longer 
shrank from the meditated shot. On the contrary, he seemed 
now rather to invoke his death, as even a mercy in that prefer- 
able form, at the hands of his enemy. But his desire was not 
complied with. 

“ No, no. Why should I waste the bullet upon you ? You 
took to the hollow like a beast. You shall die like one. It’s 
a fit death for one like you. You’ve been hunting after my 
blood quite too long. I won’t spill yours, but I’ll leave it to dry 
up in your heart, and you shall feel it freezing and drying 
up all the time.” 

He surveyed his victim as he spoke with a malicious joy, 
which at length grew into a painful sort of delight, it was so 
intense — so maddening — so strange, since it followed a tran- 
sition from the extremest sense of appreciation to one of un- 
looked-for security. His ecstasies at length broke forth into 
tumultuous and unmitigated laughter. ^ 

The deportment of the half-breed was changed. His fea- 
tures seemed to undergo elevation, and the utter hopelessness 
of his fate, as he now beheld it, evjen gave dignity to their ex- 
pression. He spoke to his enemy in language of the most bit- 
ing asperity. His sarcasm was coarse, but effective, as it ac- 
corded with his own nature and the education of liis foe. He 
taunted him Avith cowardice, with every meanness, and strove 
to irritate him by reproaches of himself and his connections, 
aspersions upon his mother and his sister, in language and as- 
sertion, which, among the vulgar, is almost always effectual in 
irritating to the last degree of human violence. The object of 
Blonay was to provoke Humphries to the use of the more 
ready weapon, which would have given him death without the 


HUMl'IimMS lliKKS 'I'liK HALK-niiKKD. 


38 J 


prolonged torture consc(|uent upon such a doom as that to 
which lie was now destined. But the partisan readily divined 
his object, and denied him the desired boon. 

•‘No, no, catch old birds with chaff,” he replied, coolly, 
“ You shall die as you are. I’ll just take the liberty of putting a 
plug into that hollow, which will give you less chance to talk out, 
a3 you now seem pleased to do. I’ll stop out a little more of 
tlie sweet air, so that you may enjoy better what I leave you.” 

Thus saying, he threw together a few chunks at the foot of 
the tree, and, rising upon them, well provided with a wedge 
estimated to fit the aperture, he prepared to drive it in, and 
placeil it at the opening for that purpose. The desperate Bio 
nay thrust one hand through the crevice, in the vain hope to 
exclude the wedge. But a blow from the lightwood knot with 
whicli Humphries had provided himself as a sort of mallet, 
crushed the extended fingers almost into a mass, and the half- 
breed must have fainted from the pain, as the hand was in- 
stantly withdrawal ; and when the partisan drove in the wedge, 
the face of the victim had sunk below the opening, and w'as no 
longer to be seen. His task completed, he descended from 
liis perch, threw aside the chunks which had supported him, 
and set off to find his horse. He w as at last secure from the 
hunter of blood — he had triumphed — and yet he could not 
keep down the fancy, which continually, as he w'ent, imbodied 
the supposed cries of the half-breed in little gusts of wdnd, 
that seemed to pursue him; and, when he emerged from the 
w^ood, a strange chill went through his bones, and he looked 
back -niomently, even when the gigantic cypress, which was 
the sepulchre of his enemy, no longer reared up its solemn 
spire in his sight. It was no longer behind him. It seemed 
to move before him faster than his horse ; and he spurred the 
animal furiously forward, seeking to pass the fast-travelling 
tree, and to escape the moaning sound which ever came after 
him upon the breeze. 


382 


mp:lijohampk 


CHAPTEE XLVI. 

THE SIGNAL. 

The deed was done ; and Humphries, fatigued by a long and 
arduous duty on the previous night, and doubly so from the 
exciting circumstances just narrated, hurried to his place of 
retreat and repose in the swamp covert of the partisans. He 
could sleep now. For a long period his sleep had been trou- 
bled and unsatisfactory. His apprehensions were now quieted, 
and sweet must be that first sleep which we feel to be secure 
from the efibrts off a long-sleepless enemy. 

His companions, meanwhile, had the duties of the scout to’ 
execute, and each had gone upon his several tasks. Wither- 
spoon, with whom our course now lies, true to his friend, pro- 
ceeded at once to the woods that surrounded the camp of Bars- 
field. He maintained a close watch upon the premises in which 
Mellichampe lay a prisoner. How he knew of the youth’s pre- 
dicament may not be said, but certain it is he was informed 
both as to the nature of his injuries and his condition. He 
had, probably, lurked in the hollow, or listened from p tree, 
while an incautious sentinel prattled to his comrade; or, which 
is not less probable, he had gathered his intelligence from some 
outlying negro of the plantation, whose address enabled him 
to steal fortli at intervals, in spite of the surrounding sentinels. 

Solicitous, to the last degree, for the safety of the youth, of 
whose safety, while in the custody of Barsfield, he half-des- 
paired, he availed himself of his duties as a scout to lurk about 
the neighborhood, in the faint hope to communicate with, or in 
some other way to serve, the prisoner. Night after night, for 
a week before the period to which we have now come, had he 
cheered the heart and strengthened the hope of Mellichampe 


TPIE SIGNAL. 


383 


with liis well known-wnistle. It may be scarce necessary to 
say, that the faitliful inferior found no less gratification in this 
sad office tban did the youth to whom it taught the iinrelaxing, 
thongh as yet ineffectual, watchfulness of a friend. 

The dexterity of Witherspoon admirably sorted Avith his 
fidelity and courage. Fearlessly did he penetrate the nearest 
points to Avhich he might approach, without certaintj’^ of being 
seen, of the camp of his enemy. The frequent exercise of his 
faculties as a woodman, a native ease and self-confidence, and 
a heart too much interested in a single object to feel any scru- 
ples or fear any danger, prompted him to a degree of hardi- 
hood which, in a less admirable scout, would have been child- 
ish audacity ; but it was in him the result of a calm conviction 
of his own readiness of resource, and of his general ability to 
meet emergencies. He knew himself as well as his enemy, 
and relied upon his own sense of superiority. This confidence, 
however, seduced him into no incautiousness. He timed his 
movements with a just reference to all the circumstances of 
his situation ; chose his route and designed his purpose well 
before entering upon it; and, this done, dashed forward with 
the boldness of the tiger, and the light, scarce perceptible foot 
step of the Avild turkey in April. 

It was night when, after making a circuit around Barsfield’* 
position, and scanning it carefully on every side, he reached a 
copse at the head of the avenue, where, on a previous occa- 
sion, Ave found himself and Mellichampe concealed. It was an 
old haunt, and he threw himself on the grass and mused list- 
lessly, like one who, after long strifes and a heating exercise 
abroad, comes home to the repose and permitted freedoms of 
his own fireside and family. Ttie camp-fires were sprinkled 
about the woods before him, looking dimly enough in contrast 
with the pale but brighter gleams of the now ascending moon. 
The house in which Mellichampe was confined stood a little 
beyond, but as yet undistinguishable. . The scout lay and 
mused upon the fate and probable fortunes of his friend, and 
his thoughts, breaking through the bounds of his own restrain 
ing consciousness, were framed into words upon his lips with 
out his own volition. 


384r 


MKLLICHAMPE. 


“ T could swear lie answered me last iiiglit. Tliere’s no 
mistake. Three times it come upon the wind ; first, quick and 
shrill, to ketch the ear — then slow and sad — and then quick 
and shrill agin. ’Twas a great distance to hear a whistle, but 
the wind come up jist then, and I’m sure I heard it; and it 
was sich a blessed sort of music, coming from Airnest, that, by 
gracious! — I can’t help it — I’ll go closer agin, and see if I 
can’t git some more of it. It’s a sign he’s doing better if he’s 
able to whistle, and it’s a clear sign he hears me, when he’s 
able to answer. I’ll try it agin soon as I see that big fire 
kindled that burns upon the left, for then I know they’ll be 
busy at the supper. He shall hear me agin, by gimini ! He 
shall know I ain’t forgotten him — though, to be sure, there’s 
but little can be done Tor him yet. Them d — d blasted tories 
are too thick about Barsfield, and the ‘ fox’ must wait and 
watch a little longer before he can make a break. Gimini ! 
it’s hard enough, but there’s no way to help it.” 

He soliloquized thus upon a variety of matters, all bearing 
upon this subject; - and, had a scout of the enemy been crouch- 
ing among the branches of the tree above him, he might have 
picked up for Barsfield many a valuable little secret touching 
the condition and the force of Marion. The faithful Wither- 
spoon was one of those ingenuous persons who do not hesitate 
to speak their thoughts out freely, and who, thinking to him- 
self, is yet quite as likely to be confiding and communicative, 
as if he was really engaged in delivering a message to his 
superior. You could have heard from his lips on this occasion, 
without much striving to hear, what were the general objects 
of the partisan — how he was busy gathering his men in the 
swamp for the co-operationf in future strife, with the newly- 
forming army of Greene — of designs upon the rapidly-rushing, 
and perhaps too self-confident, career of Bannister Tarleton ; 
and, to come more immediately to the interest before us, he 
might have learned now, for the first time, as we do, of the 
organization of an especial corps, to be commanded by Major 
Singleton, having for its object the rescue of the youthful 
Mellichampe, whenever it should be ascertained that he was 
to be removed to Charleston. This was a primary considera- 


thy? signal. 


385 


aon with the partisan. The tender mercies of a Charleston 
commandant, and of a board of British officers for inquiry, 
were well known ; and the sacrifice of the youth was a fear 
with all his friends, should he not be rescued from the clutches 
of his foe before his transfer to the scene of trial. Too haz- 
ardous an enterprise to aim at this rescue while the youth lay 
in Barsfield’s well-defended encampment, the partisan simply 
prepared himself to be in readiness at the moment when a 
signal from his scouts should apprise him of the movement 
of any guard of the enemy in the direction of the city. An 
ambush on the wayside was the frequent resort of warriors 
who were only too few, too poorly armed and provided, to risk 
a more daring sort of warfare. 

The camp of Barsfield was soon illuminated by the addi- 
tional fire of which Witherspoon had spoken. As soon as he 
beheld it he proceeded, cautiously but fearlessly, to pass the 
intervening road ; then, keeping close alongside of the left or 
upvrard bank of the avenue leading to the settlement, he stole 
along from tree to tree, until he heard the measured tread of 
the more advanced sentinels. A necessity for greater precau- 
tion induced a pause. He stole, a moment after, to the edge 
of the ditch, into which he descended; then, crawling upon 
hands and knees up the bank, he looked over into the avenue, 
and distinguished the glittering raiment of the first sentinel. 
In the distance he beheld a second, with corresponding pace, 
moving his “ lonely round.” Resting his chin upon his palm, 
Witherspoon took a cool survey of the prospect, and did not 
even withdraw himself into the hollow Avhen the nearest sol- 
dier, having gained his limit, wheeled to retrace his steps. 

“ I could nail that fellow’s best button now with a sly bul- 
let, if ’twas any use, and he wouldn’t know what hurt him,” 
was the half-muttered thought of the scout as the sentinel 
approached. The man came forward until he stood abreast 
of our scout, who buried himself in the long grass as he ap- 
proached ; then, again wheeling, he commenced his monotonous 
return. It was now the moment for Witherspoon : he gath- 
ered himself up instantly, waited in readiness until the senti- 
nel had gone half of his distance, then, with a single bound, 

17 


386 


MELLICHAMPE. 


leaped down int) the avenne, and sought his way across. H^s 
tread was light, wonderfully light, for a man so heavy ; hut it 
did not escape the quick ear of the watchful Briton. He 
turned instantly, presented his piece, and challenged. But 
the coast was clear ; there was nothing to be seen ; the scout 
liad already crossed the road, and was sheltered in the thick 
copse on the other bank of the avenue. The leaves and brush 
were shaken, and the only response made to the challenge of 
the sentry was the hooting of a melancholy owl, and a noise 
like the shaking of wings among the branches. 

“What’s the matter?” cried the companion sentinel, ap- 
proaching the challenger, who had remained stationary in 
the brief interval occupied by this event. “ What have you 
seen ?” 

“ Nothing — it’s only an owl. These woods are full of them , 
the d — d things keep one starting on all sides as if the ‘swamp- 
fox’ himself was scrambling over the ditch.” .. 

The scout lay close, and heard the question and response. 
He chuckled to himself with no little self-complaisance as he 
listened. 

“ By gimini !” he half-muttered aloud, “ what a poor skunk 
of a fellow I’d be, now, if my edication was no better than 
that sentry’s. Not to know a man’s hollow from a blind bird’s !” 

Waiting a few moments until the guardians of the night 
had resumed their walk, he at length boldly left the copse, and 
proceeded without hesitation, though cautiously, still nearer to 
the house which held the prisoner. 

Meanwhile, full of anxiety, the lovers lingered together. 
Tliis was the night on which Scipio was despatched in search 
of Witherspoon, and all their thoughts were necessarily given 
to his successful management of the enterprise. Well might } 
they be anxious; and how natural was the deep and breathless 
silence which, for protracted hours, overspread the a])artinent ^ 
as if with a dense and lieavier mantle than that of niglit. The 
arm of Mellichampe enfolded the waist of the maiden. She 
lay sadly, as was her wont, upon its supporting strength ; and 
her cheek, with all the confidence of true and unsophisticated 
affection, rested upon his bosom. She feared notliing — she 


THE SIGNAL. 387 

doubted notliing — at that moment; for she knew how noble 
was the heart that beat beneath it. 

Her fears were elsewhere. The fate of her lover hung sus* 
pended, as it were, upon a thread. He was about to seek a 
perilous chance for life, to escape from a more perilous, and, 
as it appeared to them, an unavoidable necessity. Upon the 
cunning of the slave — upon his successful search after the 
partisans — and upon their readiness and ability for the adven- 
ture, the life of Mellichampe depended. How many contin- 
gencies to be met and overcome ! how many difficulties to be 
avoided or surmounted ! how many dangers to be hazarded 
and sought ! The accumulating thoughts of these took from 
her all hope. She was no longer sanguine, though her more 
buoyant lover, in all the eloquent warmth of a young heart, 
strove to persuade her into confidence. She lay upon his 
bosom, and wept bitter tears. 

Suddenly there came again to the apartment the faint, dis- 
tant, but distinct sound — the whistle of the woodman. Melli- 
champe lifted her head from its place of rest, and his heart 
increased its beatings. His eye brightened ; and, as she be- 
held its glance, her own kindled amid its tears. Again and 
again did the well-known notes glide into the apartment, and 
well did the youth know then that his friends were at hand. 

“Hear! hear it, my Janet? He is there — it is Wither- 
spoon — it is his signal — the same that has come to me, and 
cheered me, night after night, when you could no longer be 
with me. Do you not hear it ?” 

The sense of the maiden did not seem so quick as that of 
her lover. She paused ; and, though her eye had caught a 
glow from the kindled expression of his, it still seemed that 
she doubted the reality of the sounds when an appeal was made 
to her own distinct consciousness. She was a sweet depen- 
dant-— one who could receive consolation from the assurances 
of another ; but, save in love, who could give little in return. 

“Is it a whistle, Ernest? — it seems to me little more than 
a murmur of the wind . . . Ah ! I do — I do hear it now — it 
is; it is a whistle.” And her head sank, in joy, again upon 
the manly and aroused bosom of her lover. 


388 


MELLICHAMl’E. 


“ It is lie, and all’s well if Scipio does not miss liim. Janet, 
dear love, we must see to this. Scipio may not yet be gone ; 
and, if not, methinks I can direct him to the very spot wlrence 
these sounds come. I know I can. See, dear — hark! To 
the north — directly to the north — is it not? You hear it 
now — there, in that direction; and that is toward the little 
hay that lies between this house and the avenue. That’s just 
the spot in which a good scout wmuld lurk at such a moment, 
and from that spot he knov^s that I can hear his signal. He 
must be there now ; and if Scipio passes in that direction, he 
mush, find him. If not gone, the fellow must go at once, for 
Witherspoon can’t remain long in one spot while in this neigh- 
borhood. The scouts may trouble him. See to it, then, dear 
Janet — see if Scipio be not gone, and send him on that 
course : and hold me not burdensome, dearest, that I give you, 
in these dangerous hours, more employment than affection.’’ 

“ Speak not thus, dear Ernest,” replied the maiden, fondly, 
as she proceeded to execute the mission — “speak not thus — 
not thus to me. Are not Love’s labors his pleasures alwaj’^s? 
does he not rejoice to serve? I do, I am sure. I feel that 
my best pleasures are my labors always — always when they 
are taken fOr you.” 

“Heaven bless you, my Janet,” he murmured fondly in 
reply, as his lips were pressed upon her forehead ; “ Heaven 
bless you, and make me worthy of all this devotion.” 


COW-CHASING. 


389 


I:- 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

COW-CHASING. 

I But Scipio was already gone upon his mission, and (he 
I maiden looked for him in vain. The next fear of Mellichnmp? 
I was that he should miss the person he sought. Scipio, how- 
■ ever, though he had left the house, had not yet passed tlie 
, enclosure. The line of sentinels had yet to be gone through ; 

, and a task, like that we have just seen overcome by Wither- 
spoon, had yet to be performed by the negro in crossing the 
j avenue. He had his arts also, and his plan was one after his 
I own heart and fashion. 

Creeping along by the fence, which ran circuitously from 
the house of the overseer to the avenue, and wliich we have 
seen employed as a screen to Singleton’s riflemen, he reached 
j^he entrance of the avenue, though without being able to cross 
Ij it at the point he made. The sentinels in this quarter were 
too numerous and close to permit him to attempt it there, and, 
rkeeping along the skirts of tlie copse and under its shade, he 
moved upward. The soldiers of Barsfield were more watchful 
without than within ; and, though but a few yards separated 
the negro, in his stealthy progress, from the pacing sentinel, 
such was the address of Scipio, that he occasioned not the 
[slightest apprehension. But to cross the avenue, and reach 
the dense wood that lay on the opposite side, was the work 
of most difficult achievement. 

To accomplish this, it was the aim of Scipio to pass through 
a drain which crossed the avenue, and conducted the waters 
from the two ditches, when overflowed, into a third, by means 
lof which they were carried off into a hollow bay lying some 
fifty yards distant in the woods. To penetrate the umbra- 


390 


MK-T.I-ICHAMPE. 


geous copse on one side of the avenue — to watch the moment 
when the sentinel’s back should be turned — then, dropping 
down silently into the ditch, to crawl into the drain, the mouth 
of which was immediately alongside of it, was the scheme of 
Scipio. 

In pursuance of this scheme, he passed on with all the 
stealthy adroitness of the wildcat — now hurrying, as he found 
himself too much without the cover of the trees — now crawl- 
ing forward, on hands and knees, as the clambering vines 
around him set a firm barrier against undue uprightness — 
and now lying or standing, motionless, as any warning or oc- 
casional sounds reached his ears, from either the camp which 
he had left, or the woods to which he was speeding. The 
exceeding brightness of the moonlight rendered increased pi e- 
cautions necessary, and gave bitter occasion of complaint to 
the negro, to whom, like all of his color, the 'darkness of the 
night was a familiar thing, and opposed no sort of obstruction 
to his nocturnal wanderings when the plantations otherwise 
were all fast asleep. He penetrated the copse, and, thrusting 
his sable visage through the shrubbery, looked from side to 
side upon the two sentinels who paced that portion of the 
avenue in sight. He duly noted their distances and position, ; 
and, receding a pace, threw himself flat upon the bank and 
crawled downward into the ditch. The mouth of the drain 
lay a little above him, conveniently open and large; and there 
could have been no sort of difficulty, when he otice reached 
that point, of making his way through it into the opposite 
cover. 

But it so happened that Scipio, in his progress, gave more 
of his regards to the sentinel, and less to the path iimnediaiely 
before him, than was either prudent or proper. He did !>ot 
perceive a slender and decayed pine-limb which lay partially . 
over the route he was pursuing. His hand rested heavily upon 
it in his progress, and it gave way beneath the pressure, v;ith 
a crack which might have reached the ears of a sentinel at; 
a much greater distance. With the sound, he turned suddenly ! 
in the direction of the negro. The poor fellow had his work 
to begin anew. He had plunged, with the yielding branch, ‘ 


COW'OHASING. 391 

iucoiitineiitl}’^ into the mire, and in the first moment of the 
accident his entire face had heen immersed in its slime. 

However, there was no time for regrets, and but little for re- 
flection. The proceeding of Scipio was that of an instinct 
rather than a thought. He heard the fierce challenge of the 
sentinel, who yet did not see him. He saw that, in any en- 
deavor at flight, he must be shot ; and to seek to prosecute his 
scheme would be idle, as the drain lay between him and the 
advancing soldier ; he could not reach it in time to escape his 
eyes. In boldness alone could he hope to escape ; and, in the 
moment of sudden peril, audacity is frequently the truest wis- 
dom. He rose upon his feet with the utmost composure; and, 
without seeking to retreat or advance, exclaimed as he rose, 
in all the gusto of a well-fed negro’s phraseology, with a de- 
gree of impudence which might have imposed upon a more sa- 
gacious head than that of the sentinel before him — 

“Looka 'ere, misser sodger, tek’ care how yon shoot at 
maussa nigger. Good surbant berry scarce in dis country ; 
and, when gemplemen hab sarbant like Scip, he ain’t foolish 
’nougli for sell ’em. No gould — no silber money guine buy 
Scip ; so take care, I tell you, how you spile you’ pocket.” 

“Why, what the b — 11, Scip, are you doing there?” de- 
manded the gruff soldier, who knew him well. 

“ Ki, Mass Booram, wha’ for you ax sich foolish question ? 
Knty you see I tumble in de ditch? Suppose you tink I guine 
dere o’ purpose, and spile my best breeches ? Ton’s wrong. I 
hold on de branch, and de branch breck, and so I tumble. 
Wha’ more ? Da’s all.” 

“ And suppose, Scip, that, instead of coming up to you civ- 
ily, as I have done, I should have sent a bullet into your ribs, 
or poked you a little with this bagnet ?” 

“ You bin do sich ting. Mass Booram, I say you no gern- 
pleinan. Nebber gempleman hit nigger if he kin help it ; 
’kaise a nigger’s a ’spectable character wha’ can’t help heself. 
Da’s a good reason for udder people for no hu’t ’em. ’Tis only 
poor buckrah dat does trouble nigger. Scip has ambitions for 
gempleman ; but a poor buckrah. Mass Booram, he* no wuss 
tree copper.” 


392 


MKLLICllAMPE. 


“ All very well, Scipio ; but what brought you here, old fel- 
low ? Don’t you know you have no business in this quarter?” 

“ Who tell you dat, Mass Booram? He’s a d — n fool of a 
nigger hesself if he tell you so. Wha’s de reason I say so ? 
’kaise, you see, I hah business in dis quarter. Let me ax you 
few questions, Mass Booram, and talk like a gemplenian, ’kaise 
I can’t ’spect white man when he lib ’pon gar-broff ” 

“ Go on, Scip,” replied the soldier, complacently. 

“ Fuss, den, you know I hah maussa, enty ?” 

“ Yes, to be sure; if you hadn’t, Scip, I’d take you for my- 
self ; I like a good nigger mightily.” 

“ ’Spec you does, but da’s nothing ; you hab for ax if good 
nigger likes you. Maussa want to sell Scip, he gib um ticket 
look he owner; da’s de business. But da’s not wha’ we hab 
for talk ’bout. If I b’long to maussa, wha’ he name ?” 

“ Why, Mr. Berkeley, to be sure !” 

“Da’s a gospel. I b’longs to Dick Berkeley — dis plantation 
b’long to Dick Berkeley — Dick Berkeley hab he cow, enty, 
Mass Booram ?” 

“ Yes, cow and calf in plenty, and enough of everything 
beside. I only wish I had half as much, I would not carry 
this d — d heavy musket.” 

“ Ha ! you leff off sodger? You right. Mass Booram ; sodger 
is bad business, nebber sodger is good gempleman. He hab 
for cuss — he hab for drunk; he hab for hu’t udder people 
wha’s jist as good and much better dan heself. I terra you 
what. Mass Booram, Scip wouldn’t be sodger for de world and 
all da’s in it; he radder be poor buckra — any ting sooner 
dan sodger. A sodger is a poor debbil, dat hab no ambition 
for ’spectability : I radder be nigger-driber any day, dan cap- 
pin, like Mass Barsfield.” 

“You would, would you? you d — d conceited crow in a 
corn-field! Why, Scipio, you’re the most vainest fiycatchei 
in the country,” said the other, good-naturedly. Scipio' re- 
ceived the speech as a compliment. 

“ Tank you. Mass Booram. You’s a gempleman, and can 
compreliend. But wha’ I was telling you? ah I Massa hab 
cow. Wha’ den ? Now I guine show y )u wha’ bring me here. 


COW-CHASING. 


393 


Da’s some of you soclger bin giiine tief de milk, and breck 
down de gate of de cow-lot. Wlia’ den ? — Brindle gone — • 
Becky gone — Polly gone. Tree of maussa d)est cow gone, 
’kaise you sodger lub milk. Wlia’ Scip for do ? Wha’ inanssa 
tell urn. It’s dat is brin me here. I guine look for de cow. I 
no bring um home by daylight, maussa say driber shall gib 
me h-11.” 

“ And so you want to pass here, Scipio, in order to look 
after the cattle ? Suppose now I should not suffer you to pass, 
suppose I should send you back to get your flogging ?” 

Suppose you does]” said the other, boldly ; “ suppose you 
does, you’s no gempleman. Da’s a mean buckrah. Mass Boo- 
ram, wha’ kin do so to poor nigga. Wha’ for you guine let 
maussa gib me h-11 ] I ebber hurt you, Mass Booram ? ’Tis 
you own sodger guine for tief de milk, dat’s let out Brindle 
and Beckj. Scip nebber let ’em out. Wha’ for you no say — 
whip de sodger — wha’ for yoU say wliip de nigga]’’ 

“ It is a hard case, Scip, and you shall pass, though it’s agin 
orders. But remember, old boy, when you bring home the 
cows, I must have the first milking. You shall provide me 
with milk so long as we stay here for saving you from this flog- 

ging-” 

“ Da’s a bargain,” said the negro, preparing to depart : 
“ da’s fair. Mass B(^ram, I bin always tink you was a gem- 
pleman, dat hab a lub for poor nigga. I kin speak for you 
after dis.” 

“ Thank you, Scipio,” said the other good-naturedly. “ Take 
piece of gunja — he berry good. Mass Booram — my wife make 
^em.” 

The negro broke his molasses-cake evenly between himself 
and tlie soldier, who did not scruple readily to receive it. A 
few more words Avere exchanged between them, when, passing 
the avenue, Scipio hurried forward, and found himself, his 
chief difficulties surmounted, in the deep bosom of the ad- 
joining Avoods. 

Free of all present restraint, the tongue of Scipio, after a 
very common fashion among negroes, discoursed freely to its 
' proprietor, aloud, upon the difficulties yet before him. 

17 * 


394 : 


MELLICHAMPE. 


“ Well, ’spose I pass one, da’s noting. Plenty moro, T speck, 
scatter ’bout here in dese woods ; and, ef he nin’r tory — \vl)a’ 
den ? Some of dese Marion men jis’ as bad. lie make not'ing 
of shoot poor nigga, if it’s only to git he jacket. Cracky ! 
wha’ dat now? I hear someting. Cha ! ’tis de win’ only. 
He hab all kind of noise in dis wood for frighton people — 
sometime he go like a man groan wid a bullet-hole work in be 
back. Nudder time he go like a pusson was laughing; but I 
don’t see noting here to make pusson laugh. Da’s a noise now 
I don’t comprehend — like de nocking ob old dry sticks to- 
gedder ; ’spose its some bird da’s flopping off de moschetus wid 
his Avings. It’s a bad place in dis woods, and I wonder Avha’ 
make dat Dick Wedderspoon lub ’em so. Whay him now, 
’tis like a blind nigga that don’t come when you want um. I 
no bin look arter um nOAv, I plump jist ’pon um. I no hab 
noting to ax um, he sure for answer. I no hab noting to gib 
um, he sure for put out he hand for something. He’s a — ” 

At that moment a heavy slap upon the cheek from a pon- 
derous hand saluted the soliloquizing Scipio, and arrested bis 
complainings. The light flashed from the negro’s eyes as he 
turned at this rough salutation. 

“ Cracky ! Who da dat — Mass Wedderspoon ?” 

“ Ah, you rascal — you know’d well enough. You only 
talked out your impudent stuff for me t(^hear, Scipio, ’cause 
you know’d I was close at hand.” 

I sway to G-d, Mass Wedderspoon, I nebber b’lieb you 
been so close. I bin look for you.” 

“ Why, you numskull, you came a great deal out of your 
way, for I was behind you all the time. You managed that 
sentinel mighty well, Scip, I heard the whole of your palaver, 
and really did believe at first that the cows were off, and you 
were going after them.” 

“ And how come you no b’lieb now. Mass Wedderspoon !” 

“ Because, you were no sooner out of his sight fairly, but , 
you began to go faster than before — much faster than you Ij 
ever did go when you went out into the swamp after cattle.” 

“ Da’s a trute. But you know. Mass Wedderspoon, wha’ I 
come out for — you know who I looking arter!” 




COW-CHASING. 


395 


“No — I do not’; but I want to know a good deal that you 
can tell me, sc the sooner you begin the better. How is Ainiest, 
for the first 

“ He mos' well ; but here’s de paper — read ’em — he tell you 
ebbry ting.” 

Tlie scout seized the scrawl, and strove to trace out its 
contents by moonlight, but, failing to do so, he dreAv a pistol 
from his belt, and, extracting the load, flashed, the priming 
in a handful of dry straw which Scipio heaped together. 
With some little difficulty he deciphered the scrawl, while 
the negro kept plying the fuel to the blaze. Its contents 
were soon read and quickly understood. Witherspoon was 
overjoyed. The prospect of Mellichampe’s release, even 
though at the risk of a desperate fight, was productive to him 
of the most complete satisfaction. 

“ Go back,” he said, after a while, to the negro ; “ go back 
and tell Airnest that you’ve seen me, and that all’s well. Tell 
him I’ll go my death for him, and do my best to git others, 
though the time is monstrous short.” 

“ You guine git ’em clear. Mass Wedderspoon, from de d d 

hook-nose tory ?” asked the negro. 

“ I’ll try, Scip, by the Etarnal !” 

“ Da’s a gempleman. But dem little guns — da’s jist what 
Mass Airnest want. He must hah something. Mass Wedder- 
.spoon, for hole he own wid dem tory. Put de bullet in de 
rnout’ of de pistol,* I ’ll carry um.” 

“ ’Spose they find ’em on you, Scip?” 

“ Enty I fin ’em. I pick um up in de path. You tink dem 
tory guine catch weasel asleep, when he ’tan’ by Scip. No 
uotion ob such ting, I tell you.” 

The scout gave Mm both pistols, which the negro immedi- 
ately lashed about his middle, carefully concealing them from 
exposure by the thick waistband of his pantaloons. 

“Now go. Scip — go back to Airnest, and tell him I’ve set 
jiy teeth to help him, and do what he axes. I’m guine back 
now to the boys in camp, and I reckon it won’t be too much 
to say that Major Singleton will bring a smart chance of us to 


396 


MELLICHAMPE, 


do the d — dest, by a leetle; that ever yet vyas done to help a 
friend out of a hobble.” 

They separated — one seeking the camp of Barsfield, the 
other that of Marion, which, at this time, a few miles onlj 
divided. 


HKMORSE. 


397 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

REMORSE. 

The absence of Blonay occasioned no small annoyance to 
all the leading parties at “ Piney Grove.” Suspicious of all 
things and persons, the tory captain, who depended for the 
prosecution of his scheme upon Blonay ’s ministiy, began to 
fear that the half-breed was playing him false. Not confiding 
to him at first, under a doubt of his integrity, the suspicions 
of Janet and Mellichampe were duly increased by his absence. 
Neither of these parties seemed to think of the possibility of 
evil having befallen him. It was more natural, he was so low 
and destitute, to think of his evil nature rather than of his hu- 
man liability to mishap. 

But Barsfield made his preparations, notwithstanding the 
absence of his ally. He had already chosen a certain number 
of his more resolute and ready men, to whom certain stations 
were to be assigned, along where the course of Mellichampe lay, 
under the guidance of the half-breed. Tlie tory, how ever, had 
not communicated anything calculated to arouse the suspicions 
of those whom he employed. That communication w^as left over 
for the last moment. He simply prescribed their places of 
w atch, and commanded the utmost vigilance. 

There w^as another order given about this time by Captain 
Barsfield, which had its annoyances for other parties in our 
narrative. To Lieutenant Clayton was assigned the duty, 
with a small escort, of conveying Mellichampe for trial to 
Charleston, in the beginning of the ensuing week. This order 
produced some little sensation. 

“And you really leave ‘Piney Grove’ so soon. Lieutenant 
Clayton V' was the inquiry of Rose Duncan that evening, 


398 


MELLICHAMPE. 


shortly after tea was over, of the hitherto gay gallant who sat 
beside her. The old gentleman, Mr. Berkeley — as had been 
usual with him for sometime past — had retired early. His 
daughter, as a matter now of course, was with her lover ; and 
_Rose and Clayton as was much the case since the capture of 
Mellichampe, Avere tete-d-tete. There was nothing in the AA’ords 
themselves indicath^e of more than a common feeling of curi- 
osity — nothing, perhaps, in the manner of their expression; 
and yet the lieutenant could not help the fancy that persuaded 
him to think that there was a hesitating thickness of voice in 
the utterance of the speaker, that spoke of a present emotion. 
His eyes were at once turned searchingly upon her face, as he 
listened to the flattering inquiry, and her OAvn sank to the 
ground beneath liis gaze. He replied after the pause of a sin- 
gle instant. ^ 

“ If I could persuade myself, Miss Duncan, that you shared 
in any degree the regret Avhich I feel at leaAung ‘ Piney Grove’ 
though it would greatly increase my reluctance to do so, it 
would afford me no small consolation during my absence.” 

The lieutenant began to look serious and sentimental, and 
the maiden recovered her caprice. ' Her answer was full of 
girlish simplicity, while her manner was most annoying, arch, 
and satirical. 

“ Well, I do, Mr, Clayton — I do regret your going — that I 
do, from the bottom of my heart. Bless me, what should I 
have done all this time hut for you ? — hoAv monstrous dull must 
have been these hours. I really shall miss you very-much.” 

The lieutenant Avas disappointed. He had not looked for a 
transition so sudden, in the voice, words, and manner of his 
fair but capricious companion; and, for a moment, he Avas 
something daunted. But, recovering himself with an effort, as 
from frequent intercourse he had discovered that the only Avay 
to contend with one of her character was to assume some of its 
features, he proceeded to reply in a manner which had the 
effect of compelling her someAvhat to resume that momentary 
graAuty of demeanor Avhich had accompanied her first speech ; 
and which, as it Avas unfrequent, he had found, in her, rather 
interesting. 


REMORSK. 


399 


“But I liMve a coiKSolatiou in iny exile, Miss Duncan, since 
it is to a city full of the fair; and dances and flirtations every 
niglit in Cliarleston, with the young, the rich, and the beauti- 
ful, shoidd compensate one amply for the loss — ay, even for the 
loss — temporary though I hope it may be — of the fair Miss 
Duncan herself.” 

“Treason — treason — a most tfagrant rebellion, and worthy 
of condign punishment,” was the prompt reply of the maiden; 
though it evidently called for no inconsiderable effort on her 
pa’t to respond so readily, and to dissipate the cloudy expies- 
siui just then coming over her face again. She was about to 
crn.inue her reply, aud, moved by some uncertain feeling, 
Lieutenant Clayton had transferred himself from a neighboring 
cliiir to a seat on the sofa beside her, when Janet Berkeley 
entued the room. Her appearance produced a visible con- 
strant upon both the parties, and she saw at a glance that she 
was unnecessary to their conference. She did not seem to re- 
marl them, however ; and, though she perceived that a new 
inteiest was awakened in their mutual minds for each other, 
she lad no time to give to reflection on this subject; nor, in- 
deed have we. She left the room after getting Avhat she 
souglt, and returned to the apartment of Mellichampe. She 
had scarcely done so, when Barsfield joined the two, and 
offerel another obstacle to a conversation which, to both par- 
ties, lad promised to become so interesting. 

S< much for the condition of things in the camp of the tory. 
In tiat of the partisan, affairs were even more promising. 
Witlerspooii reached it in no long time after his interview 
had ;aken place with Scipio. He immediately sought out his 
supedor. Major Singleton was the individual to whom he made 
his communication : and, through him, the paper sent by Mel- 
li(di,'mpe, and the facts furnished by the scout, were duly put 
in Marion’s possession. The words of the chief were few — his 
plais soon laid — his decision readily adopted. 

“It will do, Singleton,” he said, with a .lively air of satis- 
faction. “ The game is a good one, and only requires to be 
pla/ed with spirit. The plan promises better than that of 
HoiTy, since we sliall now not only rescue Mellichampe, I think. 


iOO 


MELLICHAMPK. 


but strike a fatal blow at Barsfield’s position. Wliat number 
of loyalists does Thumbscrew report as in ‘ Piney Grove* since 
the 27th ?’* 

“ Eighty-six have gone in to him since the 27th — thirty-two 
before — and the troop which he brought, after all its losses, 
could scarcely be less than twenty five.” 

“ Making in all — ” 

“ One hundred and forty-three, rank and file.’* 

“Not too many — not too many, major, if we employ the 
scheme. What say you f* 

“ I think not, general. Barsfield will concentrate his men, 
most probably, on the line over which Mellichampe is to be 
conducted. That direction we know from this paper. Tie 
advantage is important which it gives us, since we have only 
to plan our enterprise so as to avoid this — fall upon otier 
points of his camp, and break in upon his ambush, flank ind 
rear, while avoiding his front.” 

“True, Singleton — it will be to our advantage in beaming 
Barsfield, I grant you ; but not in serving Mellichampe. 1* he 
keeps this line, it will be necessary that we strike a monent 
before he approaches, and just when he has left the house, or 
he must fall before our help would avail him, coming in from 
flank and rear. We must confound the ambush in part — we 
must keep the whole camp of the tory alive by a concerted 
attack at all points, in front not less than in rear, or w( lose 
Mellichampe, though we gain the fight.” 

Singleton acknowledged the difficulty. 

“ If,” resumed Marion, “ if Mellichampe would only thiik to 
avoid the track prescribed by his confederate, and forcehim 
to go aside upon another route, however slight the variation, 
it would yet serve us, and we might save him.*' 

“I doubt not, general, that he will think of this; 1b is 
wonderfully shrewd in such matters, though rash and thought- 
less enough in others. I think we may rely upon him liliat 
he will.” 

“We must hope for it, at least,” said Marion. “ The aflair 
looks promising enough in all other respects, and we mist 
drive our whole force to tlie adventure. We have been cooped 


REMORSE. 


401 


lip long enoiigli. Go, Singleton, order in your reniute scouts. 
Get all your men in readiness, and send your lieutenant, Hiim- 
pliries, to me. I have some instructions for him. I will lead 
in this business myself.” 

Singleton proceeded to the spot where Humphries usually 
slept, hut he was not to he found. Let us account for his 
absence. 

Humphries, secure of his enemj^ excited- by the trying scene 
through which he had passed, and scarcely less so by the 
novel form of death to which circumstances had prompted him 
to devote his victim, returned to the camp in a state of the 
utmost mental agitation. It was yet daylight, and sundry lit- 
tle duties in tlie camp called for his attention. These he per- 
formed almost unconsciously. His thoughts were elsewhere. 
An excitation of feeling, which sometimes moved him like 
insanity, disturbed his judgment, and affected the coherence 
and the regularity of his movements. In this state of mind, 
with just enough of consciousness to feel that he was wander- 
ing, and that he needed repose, he made his way about dusk 
from the observation of the camp, and seeking out a little 
bank in the swamp, with which he was familiar, where he 
might sleep in secresy, he threw himself under a tree and 
strove to forget the past. Shutting his eyes, he hoped in this 
way to shut out all the images of strife and terror which yet 
continued to annoy him. 

He succeeded in his desire, and at length slept. But his 
sleep was more full of terrors than his waking thoughts. lie 
dreamed, and the horror of his dreams aroused him. He 
heard the cries of the victim whom he had buried while yet 
alive. His dreadful shrieks rang in his ears ; and, bursting 
from their sockets in blood, he saw the goggle-eyes looking 
down upon him, through the crevice in the T::y press where he 
had last seen them. This was not long to be endured. He 
started from his sleep — from his place of repose — and stood 
upon his feet. Had he slept? This was doubtful to him, so 
vivid, so imposing and real, had been the forms and fancies of 
his vision. But the night had fairly set in, and this convinced 
him that he had slept. A faint light from the stars came seat- 


4-02 


MKLLICHAMl’K. 


tcretl aiul tremblingly tlirougli the leaves, tliat complained in 
the cool wind of evening that fitfully stole among them. The 
moon was just rising, and gave but feeble light. The heavy 
trees seemed to dance before liis eyes; huge shadows stalked 
gloomily between them, and, shuddering with bitter thoughts 
and terrifying fancies, tlie stout woodman, for a few moments, 
was unmanned. 

“ I can bear it no longer,” he cried aloud, in his disquiet. 
* 1 can bear it no longer.” 

With the words he picked up his rifle, which lay upon the 
spot where he had lain himself. He felt for the knife in his 
belt, and, finding that his equipment was complete, he moved 
away with the haste of one who has fully resolved ; saddled 
his horse, which he mounted with all speed ; and, barely 
replying to the several challenges of the sentinels, he darted 
forth upon the well-known road. The relentless spur left the 
steed no breathing moment. The thoughts of the trooper flew 
faster than he could drive his horse; and, though going at the 
utmost extent of his powers, the impatient trooper chafed that 
the animal went so slowlj^ 

The well-known swamp entrance was in sight; the cane 
brake was passed; and there, rising up in dreadful silence, 
'white and ghostlike in its aspect under the increasing bright- 
ness of the moonlight, stood the tall cypress in wdiich his 
victim was buried. The steed of the trooper was stopped 
suddenly — so suddenly that he almost fell back upon his 
haunches. His rider alighted ; but for some moments, frozen 
to the spot, he dared not approach the object before him. 
The awful stillness of the scene appalled him. He strove fo 
listen : he would have given worlds to have heard a groan — 
a moan — a sigh, however slight, from the cavernous body of 
that tree. A curse — ay, though the wretch wdthin had again 
ci-rsed his mother — wmnld have been grateful to the senses 
and the heart of him who now stood gazing upon it in horror 
and in silence, but with the motionlessness of a statue. 

He recovered strength at last sufficient to advance. He 
reached the tree. The wedges 'whicii secured his prisoner 
had been undisturbed. He put his ear to the rough bark of 


RKMORSK. 


403 


its sides, but lie lieard no sounds from within. He drew, with 
desperate band, the pegs from the upper crevice, and fancied 
that a slight breathing followed it — or it might be the sough- 
ing of the wind, suddenly penetrating the aperture. He called 
aloud to the inmate; he shouted with his mouth pressed to 
the opening; he implored, he cursed his victim: but he got 
no answer. 

What were his emotions as he pulled, with a giant’s muscle, 
the hard wedges from the hollow of the tree below? He had 
slain his foe in battle : he had killed, without remorse, the man 
who, personally, had never done him wrong. Why should he 
suffer thus from the just punishment of a vindictive and .,a 
sleepless enemy ? He felt, hut he did not stop to analyze, this 
subtilty. He tore away the chunks which had fastened the 
opening, and thrust his hands into the hollow. The legs of 
the half-breed had sunk down from the knobs upon which they 
had rested while he was capable of exertion, and they were 
now a foot deep in the water which filled the’ hollow. With 
both hands, and the exercise of all his strength, Humphries 
succeeded in pulling him out by them. The body Avas lim- 
ber, and made no effort and opposed no resistance. Dragging 
him throug^i the water, Avhich he could not avoid, tl^e partisan 
bore him to the hank, upon Avhich he laid him. 

As yet he showed no signs of life ; and the labor which his 
enemy had taken seemed to have been taken in vain ; but the 
fresh air, and the immersion which he had unavoidably under- 
gone in passing through the water, seemed to revive him — so 
Humphries thought, as, bending over him, he Avatched his 
ghastly features in the moonlight. He tore open the jacket 
and shirt from his bosom, and felt a slight pulsation at his 
heart. Never Avas joy more perfect than, at this moment, in 
the bosom of the partisan. He laughed with the first convic- 
tion that his enemy still lived. He laughed first, loudly and 
wildly, and then the tears, an unrestrainable current, floAved 
freely from his eyes. The half-breed continued to revive; 
and Humphries prayed by }iis side, as fervently as if praying 
in the last moment of his existence, for the mercy of an 
offended God. 


404 


MKLLICIiAMPK. 


lie strove in every known way to assist the workings 0/ 
nature in the resuscitation of his enemy. He fanned him 
with his cap — he sprinkled him freely with water, and spared 
no means supposed in his mind to he beneficial, to bring 
about the perfect restoration of his victim. ^ 

At length he succeeded. The legs of the half-breed were, 
one after the other, suddenly drawn up, then relaxed — he 
sighed deeply — and, finally, the light stole into his glazed 
orbsj as if it had been some blessed charity from the moon, 
that now' glistened over them. 

As he continued to improve, and with the first show of con- 
sciousness, Humphries lifted him higher up the bank, and laid 
him 'at the foot of a shrub tree which grew at hand. He then 
receded from him to a little distance — placed himself di- 
rectly before his eyes — resumed his rifle, which he prepared 
and presented, and thus, squat upon one knee in front of him, 
he awaited the moment of perfect recovery, which should again, 
in the consciousness of new life, inform him at the same time, 
of the presence of an ancient enemy. 

Thus stationed, he watched the slowly recovering Blonay, 
for the space of half aji hour, in silence and in doubt. The 
scene was a strange one ; and to his mind, not }^t relieved 
from the previously active terrors of his imagination, an awful 
and imposing one. In the deep habitual gloom of that swamp 
region, among its flickering shadows — girdled by its thick 
and oppressive silence, and watching its skeleton trees until 
they seemed imbued with life, and, in the ghostly and increas- 
ing moonlight, appeared to advance upon, and then to recede 
away from him — he felt, at every moment of his watch, an 
increasing and superstitious dread of all things and thoughts, 
all sounds and objects, that assailed his senses, however re- 
motely, and roused his emotions, however slight. And as the 
slow consciousness grew, like a shadow itself, in the cheek and 
eye of the man whom he had so lately beheld as lifeless, he 
half doubted whether it was human, and not spectral life, that 
he now beheld. He had believed^ that an evil spirit had pos- 
sessed the mangled and deformed frame of the man before him, 
and was now beginning, with an aspect of anxious malignity. 


REMORSE. 


4:05 


ouce more to glare forth upon him from the starting e} es >f 
the half-breed. 

He shuddered with the thought, and he felt that his grasp 
upon his rifle grew more and more unsteady, until at length ho 
almost doubted his own capacity to secure a certain aim upon his 
enemy, in the event of strife. With this fear, determined, as he 
was, to have a perfect control over the life of Blonay, whatever 
might be the movement of the latter, he rose from the spot 
where he watched, and approached so nigh to the slowly recov- 
ering man, that the extended rifle nearly touched his breast. 
At that moment Blonay started, raised his head, and, half sitting 
up, gazed wildly upon the scene around him. His eye caught 
that of Humphries in the next instant, and he acknowledged 
the presence of his enemy by an involuntary start, rising, at the 
same moment, to a full sitting posture, and answering the watcli- 
ful glance of the partisan by one of inquiry and astonishment, 
not less intense in its character than that which he encoun- 
tered. His eye next rested upon his own rifle, which Hum- 
phries had thrown upon the bank, in the full glare of the 
moonlight, and his body involuntarily inclined toward it. 
With the movement came the corresponding one of the parti- 
san. The muzzle of his weapon almost reached Blonay’s 
breast, and the lock clicked with singular emphasis, in the gen- 
eral silence of the scene, as Humphries cocked it. 

“ Stir not. Goggle — move a foot,- and I’ll put the lead 
through you. It’s a mercy I don’t do it now.” 

Without a word, Blonay kept his position, and his eye met 
that of his foe without fear, tliough with the utmost passiveness 
of expression. Humphries continued — 

“You’ve hunted me like a varihint — you’ve pulled trigger 
upon me — I have your mark, and will carry it, I reckon, to my 
grave. There’s no reason why I should let you run.” 

He paused, as if awaiting an answer but the stare of his 
enemy alone responded to his speech. 

“ What do you say now, Blonay, wliy I shouldn’t put the 
bullet into you? Speak now — it’s only civility.” 

“ Adrat it, nothing,” said the other, drawing up his legs. 

“You’re from my own parish, and that’s one reason,” said 


4:06 


MELLICIIAMI^K. 


Humpliries, “ that’s one reason why I want to give you fair 
play, and it’s reason enough why I don’t want to spill your 
blood. Answer me noAV, Goggle, like a man — do you want 
mine?” 

He paused, but received no answer. He thus proceeded — 

“ I had you safe enough, but I couldn’t find it in my heart 
to take your life after that fashion, so I let you out. Tell me, 
now, if you can go without taking tracks after me again t 
Suppose I let you run — suppose I leave you, without troubling 
you now with this lead, that only waits till I lift this finger to 
go through ^our skull — will you follow me again? will you 
come hunting for my blood ? Speak ? for your life depends 
on it.” 

“ Adrat it. Bill Humphries, you’ve got the gun, and you say 
there’s a bullet in it. I’m here afore you, and I don’t dodge. 
I ain’t afeard,” was the reckless and seemingly impatient re- 
sponse. 

“That’s as much as to say that you wont promise, and it’s 
enough to satisfy me to my own conscience for pulling trigger 
upon you at once. But I won’t. I’ll give you a chance for 
your life. There shall be fair play between us. Take your 
rifle — there it lies — get yourself ready, and take your stand 
on the edge of the bank, and then be as quick as you think 
proper, for the first one to cut away will have the best chance 
for life.” ^ 

A visible change came over the features of the half-breed 
as he listened to this address. His head dropped, his chin 
rested upon his breast, and, without any other answer, he sim- 
ply raised the hand which Humphries had mashed so remorse- 
lessly with the pine-knot, when its owner had thrust it througli 
the crevice of the tree. He raised it, and in the action showed 
his enemy how utterly impracticable it was for him to hold the 
rifle with any hope of its successful use. Humphries was si- 
lenced, and his own feelings were strongly affected when he 
actually beheld a tear in the blear eye of the half-breed, as he 
looked upon the maimed and utterly helpless member. The 
privation must have been terrible indeed, to extort such an ac- 
knowledgment fron one so inflexible. It certainly was the 


REMORSE. 


407 

greatest evil that could have befallen liiin, to lose the use of 
the weapon on which so much depended ; and then, what was 
his mortification to submit to a challenge from a hated enemy, 
his weapon and his foe alike at hand, unable to employ the one 
or to punish the other ? 

The rifle of Humphries was lowered as he felt the full force 
of Blonay’s answer. He turned away to conceal his own emo- 
tion. 

“ Go !” he cried, “ go, Blonay — you are free this time. 1 
must take my chance, and run my risk of your taking tracks 
after me again. Go now, but better not let me meet you. My 
blood is hotter at other times than norv. I’m sad and sorry 
now, and there’s something to-night in the woods that softens 
me, and I can’t be angry, I can’t spill your blood. But ’twon’t 
always be so ; and, if you’re wise, you’ll take the back tracks 
and go down quietly to Dorchester.” 

Without waiting for any answer, the partisan hurried through 
the canebrake; and, with a motion less rapid than that which 
brought him, took his way hack to the camp of Marion, where 
he arrived not a moment too soon for the most active prepara- 
tion and employment. 

Bruised, enfeebled, almost helpless, the half-breed slowly 
returned to the tory encampment at “ Piney Grove.” He 
appeared before Barsfleld at early morning on the day fol- 
loAving that, the circumstances of which we have recorded. 
His presence quieted the anxieties, as it met the desires, of 
all parties. 

“Your hand — what is the matter with it ? why is it bound 
up?” demanded Barsfleld. 

‘ Mashed it with a piece of timber 'u the swamp,” was the 
unscrupulous answer of the half-breed, who suppressed all the 
particulars of his affair with Humphries. 

“Any luck? — met with your man?” was the further ques- 
tion. 

“No,” was the ready answer. 

“You are ready for mine, however?” 

“To-night — yes.” 

“At midnight. But you must see Miss Berkeley — have 


408 


MEr.LTCTfAMPE. 


everything well understood, so that there Avill he no confusion, 
no delay. She does not suspect — she seems satisfied?” 

“ Mighty well pleased.” 

“ ’Tis well. Thus, then, you will proceed. The sentinel 
will be withdrawn from the gallery, and you shall have, at the 
hour, another key to the padlock. Guide him forth as soon 
as possible after the withdrawal of the sentinel : you know 
the course ?” 

“Yes — by the railing, and so on to the avenue.” 

“ Be particular, and do not leave the track for an instant. 
Go now — I shall he out of the way ; seek Miss Berkeley, and 
conclude your arrangements with her for to-night.” 

The half-breed left him. 

“ To-night !” were the only words uttered by the tory as he 
went toward the outposts, but they were full of import, and his 
face looked everything which his lips forbore to utter. 


ESCAi’F. 




CHAPTER XLIX. 

ESCAPE. 

That day was spent in arrangements. Barsfield cliose liis 
men for the purposes of assassination; hut he did not surren- 
der his secret to their keeping. He was too wary for that. 
They had their places assigned ; and all that he condescended 
to unfold to them, by way of accounting for the special ap- 
pointment and the earnest commands which he gave, may he 
comprised in few words. 

“ I suspect,” said he; “ that there is some treason among us. 
I suspect the scout — Blonay. I have reason to think he pur- 
poses, either this night or the next, to betray the camp to 
Marion, and to escape with the spy Mellichampe. You will, 
therefore, preserve the utmost watchfulness upon the posts 
which I assign you; and if you see anything to alarm you, 
anything Avorthy of suspicion, act upon it decisively and with- 
out pause. If you see the prisoner with the scout, spare nei- 
ther — put them both to death. To seek to recapture the spy 
might lose him, and such an event would be ruinous and 
disgraceful. I trust to you, men — you will do your duty.” 

In the chamber of Mellichampe, whose fate thus hung upon 
a thread, the interest, it may be supposed, was not less impor- 
tant and exciting. Concealed in a shawl assumed for the 
purpose, the maiden carried to her lover the much-desired 
weapons which Scipio had received from Witherspcron. The 
message of the trusty. woodman was also delivered correctly, 
and the intelligence strengthened the youth accordingly, and 
half-reconciled Janet to the experiment which she so much 
dreaded. 

** This is well — this is excellent !” cried Mellichampe, grasp- 

18 


MELLICHAMPE. 


ing the pistols, trying the charge, and examining their condi 
tion — “this is well; both loaded; good flints: I fear nothing 
now, Janet. At least, I am able to fight — I am not less able 
to destroy than my enemies.” 

She turned away with a shudder: but she felt happier and 
more hopeful as she beheld his exultation. 

Not less busy in the camp of Marion, the entire force of the 
partisans was preparing for the assault. Every available arm 
was required for the service, as the little squad of the “ swamp- 
fox” at this period barely numbered one hundred and fifty 
men, many of these only partially armed, and some of them 
who had never been in fight before. 

“ Have you had reports from the scouts. Major Singleton V 
demanded the general. 

“ Not yet, sir. I have sent out Humphries and Wither- 
spoon, who will bring us special accounts by noon. We shall 
have time enough then for our movement.” 

“Quite — quite. This plan of Thumbscrew’s is admirable. 
If the scouts do handsomely, we can put a dead shot for every 
sentinel on one side of the avenue. It can scarcely fail, I 
think.” 

“ Impossible, sir — if the action is concerted, and I think 
we have time enough to make it so. The firing of the tents 
must follow the first knowledge we have of Mellichampe’s 
movement ; and that knowledge, if I mistake him not, we shall 
have as soon as he leaves the house, for Witherspoon has sent 
him his pistols. When the alarm is given by the blaze, I will 
charge from the lower bay — to which I can get, with all my 
men, by nine o’clock — moving slowly, and without detection. 
With proper firmness, we can not help but succeed.” 

“ I doubt not we shall do so, major — I doubt not that wo 
shall defeat the tory, and I hope annihilate his force; but, in 
that first moment. I dread everything for Mellichampe. The 
tory, doubtless, will watch every step which he takes, and he 
may be murdered the moment after he leaves the house.” 

“ But it is on one route only that he puts his guard. Kely- 
ing on his scout as faithful, he will calculate upon his bringing 
Mellichampe into his very jaws — ” 


ESCAPE. 


m 

“And bow know we that be is not faitbfnl to bis employer ^ 
Wbat reason is there to believe bira friendly to MellicliampO? 
Tbis is my doubt. So long as Barsfield can pay this fellow in 
solid gold, be bas bis fidelity.” 

“Yes, sir, very probably ; but I scarcely tbink that Melli- 
cbampe will keep tbe one track. I rely greatly on. his saga- 
city in all matters of tbis sort, and tbyik that the moment he 
leaves the dwelling, be will not feel himself bound to follow 
tbe lead of bis companion.” 

“ I hope not,” was the response of Marion to the sanguine 
calculations of Major Singleton — “I hope not, but I appre- 
hend for him. We must do our best, however, and look to 
Good Fortune to help us through where we stumble. But no 
more. See now to your further preparations, for we move by 
dusk.” 

Tlie affair on band impressed no one more seriously with its 
importance than Thumbscrew. He addressed Major Singleton 
the moment after bis return, »^bringing tbe desired intelligence, 
v/hicb be did at noon. He addressed him to solicit what he 
styled a favor. 

“ But Avhy incur a danger so great, and, seemingly, so unne- 
cessary ? I see no use for it. Thumbscrew.” 

“No use! There’s use for it, major, and satisfaction; as 
for danger, I’m a born danger myself, and I shouldn’t be afraid 
to stand in tbe way of my own shadow. But I don’t think 
there’s any danger, major; to cross tbe avenue ain’t so mighty 
bard to a man like me, that’s played, in my time, a part of 
every beast, and bird, and crawling critter that’s knowm to a 
Santee woodman. I can pass them sentries like a gust from 
a big-winged bird, and so they’ll think me. I can git into 
that bay without waking a blind moscheto ; and, once I gits 
there, I can do a mighty deal now, I tell you, by a sartin 
whistle which I has, to tell Airnest Mellichampe where to 
find me.” 

Tbe arguments of Witherspoon soon persuaded bis superior, 
and he went alone, long in advance of tbe partisans, on his 
individual and daring adventure He gained the bay with 
tbe same ease and good fortune which marked bis progress in 


412 


MELLTCHAMl'K. 


a similar effort, wliicli we have previously described. There 
he waited anxiously, but in patience, the events which were at 
hand. 

At nightfall the partisans, the entire force of Marion, ap- 
proached “ Piney Grove’^ — not so near' as to be subjected to 
any danger of discovery, yet sufficiently so to be in readiness 
for any circumstance which might suddenly call them forward. 
In a deep wood, the very one in which Scipio’s interview had 
taken place with Witherspoon, they alighted, and Marion pro- 
ceeded to divide his men into tliree bodies. To one, under 
command of Colonel Horry, he assigned the task of firing the 
tents and striking at the main post of the encampment. To 
another troop, acting simply as cavalry under Major Singleton, 
he gave it in charge to attack the rear by a sudden and fierce 
onset, the moment that Horry should commence the affair — 
the firing of the tents being a common signal. To himself he 
reserved the more difficult, if not more dangerous, task of dis- 
tributing his men as riflemen, in front, along the whole line of 
the avenue, prepared to commence the attack in that quarter; 
and, pressing through the avenue — having first slain the sen- 
tinels, each man of whom Avas to be marked out by a corre- 
sponding rifleman — to unite Avith the other two bodies near 
the bay so frequently spoken of, Avhere it was their hope to 
be in time to save Mellichampe from the knife or pistol of the 
prepared assassins. 

This arrangement made, Singleton’s troop remounted their 
horses, and, under the direction of their leader, made a Avide 
circuit around the camp, so as to throw theyiselves. into the 
thicket lying in its rear. This they gained before the moon 
rose. The men commanded by Marion and Horry fastened 
their horses securely out of the reach of danger, and pressed 
forward on foot to their several stations. The riflemen stole 
individually from cover to cover, until they range'd themselves 
along the whole line of the avenue, and looked doAvn upon the 
pacing sentinels, avIio walked their rounds all unconscious of 
the lurking death which lay hovering in dreadful silence, and 
unseen around them. Each partisan in this way had selected 
his victim and the “ SAvamp-fox” himself, lying along a little 


KSCAPK. 


413 


ditch overgrown witli wijcds half full of water, lay as secretly 
and still as ever did the adroit animal whose name had been 
assigned him. 

The hour was approaching. Barsfield had set his snare, 
and was impatient 

“Go now, and bring him forth,” he said to Blonay. “ The 
time is close at hand.” 

The half breed, obedient to his will, left him on the instant. 

“ He is mine at last !” was the triumphant thought whicli 
the tory muttered at that moment to himself. “ 44ie toil 
will soon bo over, and I shall triumph now — I will bathe my 
feet in his blood.” 

He went the rounds of the men whom he had stationed on 
the watch for his victim. Some were immediately around the 
house, though not known to Blonay. Barsfield anticipated the 
possibility of the fugitive’s taking another direction than tliat 
which he had prescribed. For this possibility he had pre- 
pared. He Avas resolved that his plan should not fail through 
want of due precautions. He saw that all were in readiness; 
and, not remote, he took a station for himself which would 
enable him, as soon as the deed wa& done, to gratify himself 
with the sight of his murdered victim. 

“ Hist ! hem !” were the sounds that saluted Mellichampe 
at the door of his chamher. The hour had come. In the 
next instant the door was unlocked, and with a fearless heart, 
having his pistols ready in his grasp, he met his guide at the 
on trail ce. 

“Are .you Mr. Blonay?” was his question, as the darkness 
of the passage-Avay did not permit him to distinguish features. 
The reply was affirmative. 

“ I am ready,” said the youth. “ Lead on.” 

“ Go not — go not, dear Ernest !” cried Janet Berkeley, who 
was also watchful : “Go not, I pray you; it is not too late; 
return to your chamber, for I dread me of this trial. It will 
be fatal ; you can not escape these assassins, and the night is 
so bright and clear — ” 

“ Hush !” he whispered — “ see you not ?” and he pointed to 
Blonay. 


414 


MELLICHAMPE. 


“ I know — I know ; but trust not — risk not, I implore you, 
Ernest. Mr. Blonay knows — lie says that there is danger. 
He told me so but this moment.” 

“Nay, Janet; but you are too apprehensive. I know the 
skill of Mr. Blonay ; he can help me through the danger, and 
I fear it not.” 

“ But, dear Ernest — ” 

He interrupted her, as, passing his arm about her waist, he 
bent down and whispered in her ears: — 

“Would you prefer to see me hanging from a tree? Re- 
member, Janet, this is my only hope.” 

God help me ! God be with you, and save you !” she 
exclaimed. 

He folded her to his bosom, and oh ! the agony of doubt 
that assailed both hearts at that instant. It might be the last 
embrace that they should take in life. A mutual thought of 
this nature produced a mutual shudder at the same moment 
in their forms. 

“One — one more, my beloved!” he cried, as they parted; 
and, in another instant, he was gone from sight. She sank 
down where he left her. Her hands were clasped, and, too 
feeble for efiPort, yet too alive to her anxieties to faint into 
forgetfulness, she strove, but how vainly, even where she lay, 
to pray for hi.v safety. 


THE PINE-KNOT. 


415 


CHAPTER L. 

THE PINE-KNOT. 

It was with conflicting emotions and an excited pulse that 
Mellicham'pe hurried away from the embrace of the maiden, 
possibly the very last that he should ever be permitted to 
enjoy. In another moment, and the woods were before his 
eyes j and he now felt assured that every step which he took 
from the dwelling must he taken in sight of his enemies. Yet 
he did not the less boldly descend from the threshold, though 
he believed that with every movement he came nigher his 
murderer. He did not deceive himself with idle hopes of the 
forbearance and tender mercy of his foe; yet he was resolute 
to struggle to the last: he was prepared for anything but 
martyrdom. 

Scarcely had he stepped from the door of the dwelling into 
the shadow of a liftle clump of trees that lay before it, when 
he heard the well-known whistle of Witherspoon. He could 
not mistake the sounds, and they came with a most cheering 
and refreshing influence upon his senses. 

“ Trusty and brave Jack !’* he muttered to himself, as he lis- 
t;ened, “ at least I shall have one true and strong arm to help 
me in the struggle. I am not alone.” 

The repeated sounds guided him in his progress. He could 
not be mistaken now in their direction ; he felt certain that 
they came from the little bay, which he well knew could easi- 
ly conceal the scout so long as it continued unsuspected. He 
turned quickly in the direction of the sounds. Blonay touched 
his arm — 

“ This way, sir,” said the half-breed, in a whisper. 

“ No, sir, this way !” sternly, but in a similar whisper, re* 


4:16 


MELLICHAMPE. 


Bporicled MelUcliampe. “ This way, sir, as I bid yon ; yon go 
with me in this direction, or you die.” 

“ But, cappin — ” said the other, hesitatingly. 

“ No words — I trust you not — on !” 

The muttered and decisive language,was amply seconded 
by tlie action of the speaker. One hand grasped the maimed 
wrist of the half-breed, the other held in the same moment the 
cocked pistol to his eyes. Wincing under the pain Avhich the 
sudden seizure of his injured hand by that of Mellichampe 
had necessarily occasioned, the fierce savage, with the other, 
grasped his knife, and half drew it from the sheath. But the 
momentary anger seemed to pass away before he had fully 
bared it. He thrust it back again, and calmly replied to his 
irritable companion-; — 

“ You can trust me, cappin ; I’ll go jist as you tells me, for 
I promised the gal — she’s a good gal — I promised her to do 
the best, and I’ll do jist as you says. Lead on where you 
wants to go.” 

“ No, no, do you lead on, sir ; I will not trust you. To the 
bay, but keep the trees, and do not show your person unneces- 
sarily. On, sir, the moment you go aside, I shoot you down 
like a dog.” 

The words were of fierce character, and uttered with singu 
lar emphasis, but still in a whisper. The half-breed by no 
means relished the manner of Mellichampe, but he muttered 
to himself — 

“ I promised her — she’s a good gal — ” 

And thus reminding himself of his pledges, he prepared to 
go forward. 

“Keep close to those water oaks,” said Mellichampe to his 
companion, and he himself sank into their shadow as he 
spoke. At that moment another whistle, not that of Marion’s 
men, came from the path which they had left. It was answered 
by another, a few paces distant, on the opposite hand. Melli- 
champe thrust Blonay forward, and they both moved with in 
creased rapidity along the range of water-oaks, which at in- 
tervals afforded them a tolerable shelter. Again the whistle 
was repeated, and to the disquiet of the fugitives, it was in- 


THE PINE-KNOT. 417 

stantly answered by some one immediately in front of them, 
and on the very path they were pursuing. 

“I reckon they’ve found us out — ” Blonay began to speak, 
but Mellichampe interrupted him. 

“ Silence, sir, no Tvord, but follow me,” and the youth moved 
hurriedly along, still upon the path he had been pursuing, 
but looking out for his enemy, and cocking his pistol in 
readiness. A bush parted and waved a little before him, and 
with its evident motion Mellichampe darted aside. In the 
next moment came the shot, and immediately succeeding 
the report the youth heard a gasping exclamation from his 
companion, by which he knew him to be wounded — 

“ Ah ! it’s me, it’s hit me — ” 

Looking round, he saw the half-breed fall forward upon 
his face, but immediately rise upon his hands and knees, 
and crawl towards a little cluster of bushes which rose close 
at hand ; where, with all the instinct of an Indian, even 
after receiving his death-wound, he labored to conceal himself 
The case was evidently a desperate one. The youth was 
surrounded by his enemies; and, unless the diversion of the 
partisans was made promptly, he felt that he must be, in a 
few moments, in the power of his murderers. The shot had 
scarce been fired, and the exclamation of the wounded man 
uttered, when he heard a rush as of several pursuers from 
behind. He did not wait, but bounded forward, for he knew 
that his friends were in front, and to perish in the general 
combat would be infinitely better than any other hazard. 
But he was not allowed so readily to go forward. With his 
first movement from the tree which had covered him at the 
moment when Blonay fell, the assassin rushed out upon his 
path, with a recklessness which showed that he believed 
Mellichampe to be unarmed. He paid for his temerity with 
his life ; at five paces, and before he could recover from his 
error, the youth shot him through the breast. The man 
staggered out of his path, and fell without farther effort, cry- 
ing aloud — 

The spy — the spy he’s gone ! to the bay ! Oh ! I’m a 
dead man !” 


18 * 


MELLICIIAMPI<:. 


ilS 

While he was yet falling, Mellichampe hurled the empty 
pistol into his face, and drawing the second and last from 
his bosom, cocked it instantly for immediate use, and hur- 
ried on toward the bay, which yet lay at some little distance 
beyond him. The rushing and the shouting of the tories, on 
every hand, informed him of the close watch which had been 
kept upon his movements. The voice of Barsfield was also 
heard above the clamor, in furious exhortation — 

“ The spy has escaped with the half-breed ; shoot them 
both down — let neither escape — but fail not to kill the spy ; 
no quarter to him ! five guineas to the man who kills him !” 

“ He is here !” cried one, dragging the still living but mor- 
tally wounded Blonay from the bush where he had concealed 
himself. 

“ Ha! where?” was the demand of Barsfield, rushing to the 
spot where he lay. Without looking he plunged his sword 
into the body, and felt the last convulsion as the victim writh- 
ed around the blade. But he spurned the carcass with his 
foot the next moment, when he discovered that the scout, 
and not Mellichampe, lay before him. With a fierce shout 
he led and hurried the pursuit, impetuously dashing forward 
with all the fury of one who, having been certain of his 
victim, now begins to apprehend disappointment. 

“ Death to the spy 1 pursue 1 Five guineas to him who kills 
him ! No quarter to the spy !” 

Such were his cries to his men as he himself pursued. They 
reached the ears of Mellichampe — they aroused him to a like 
fury. Desperate and enraged, his temper became unrestrain- 
able, and, though imprudent in the last degree, he shouted 
back, even as he fled, his defiance to his foes. The whis- 
tle of Witherspoon fortunately reached his ear in that mo- 
ment, and guided him on his flight. His voice, meanwhile, 
had disclosed the direction which he had taken to those 
who were now clamorously pursuing him. But the pursuit 
was arrested at the luckiest moment for the fugitive. The 
tents were now blazing, and wild cries came from the cen- 
tre of the encampment. Clayton rushed across the path of 
Barsfield. 


TITR PTNE-KNOT. 


419 


“ Staiul aside, away ! Tlie spy — slay liim ! No quarter to 
file, s])y !” cried the fierce toiy, as lie thrust Clayton out of his 
path, liis eyes glaring like balls of fire, and the foam gath- 
ering thick around his mouth and almost choking his utterance. 

“ What is all this, Captain Barsfield !” cried the second otli- 
cer, confusedly, to his superior. 

“ Get from my path ! Stand aside, or I hew thee down *•’ 
was the desperate answer. 

“But the camp’s on fire!” said the lieutenant. “The 
camp’s on fire !” was the general cry around him. 

Barsfield only answered by pressing forward — selfishly pur- 
suing the one enemy, who, in his sight, took the place and 
preference of all others. Indeed, at that moment, he did not 
seem to be conscious of any other object or duty than that of 
arresting Mellichampe. 

“The spy — Mellichampe — he has seduced the sentinel — 
he is fled — there — Lieutenant Clayton — there — in the bay ! 
Pursue all, and kill him. No quarter to the spy!” 

“But the camp — ” said Clayton. 

“ Let it hum ! Let it burn!” His words were silenced — 
drowned in the sharp and repeated shot which rang along 
the whole line of 4he avenue. He became conscious on the 
instant, for the first time; and now, at once, conceived the 
nature of that concerted combination which was likely to de- 
fraud him of his prey. Still he did not conceive the assault to 
be made by any large force. He did not think it possible. 

“A surprise,” he said — “a mere diversion to help the spy. 
To the front. Lieutenant Clayton — send your loyalists to the 
avenue! Line the front — it will soon be over — it is but a 
straggling squad. Away — and leave me for the spy. 1 u 111 
manage him with these three men.” 

The coolness of Barsfield seemed to have come back to him 
as he gave these orders. But his rage was the greater from 
having been suppressed so long. He pressed forward to the 
bay with the three men who were with him. He believed 
that Clayton would soon maiwige the foe in front ; and he v'as 
resolved upon the death of Mellicham]»e, even if he did not. 
In another moment, however, be w as convinced that it was no 


420 


MELI.ICHAMPE. 


random attack, simply for diversion, from a small sqiad. The 
clamor was that of a large force, and the repeated and well- 
known cry of the partisans followed the first volley of the 
sharp-shooters. 

“Marion’s men — true blues — true blues! Hurra! no quar- 
ter — Tarleton’s quarters ! One and all, Marion’s men !” 

“ One and all, men !” were the stern, shrill notes that fol- 
lowed the cry. 

It was the sharp voice of Marion himself, and it was heard 
distinctly over the field : the sound was fitly concluded by a 
seconeb volley and an increasing uproar. 

“He is there with all his force!” exclaimed Barsfield ; “but 
no matter. I can not turn now, and, at least, Mellichampe is 
mine. He is here in this bay. They can not help him in 
season, and he must perish. That dom , I care not if Marion 
conquers ; we can but become his prisoners.” 

Tliese were the calculations of Barsfield, half uttered as he 
pursued. Mellichampe was immediately before him. He had 
heard his shout. The pursuers were now on the edge of the 
bay which the youth had entered. 

“ To the gum-trees, Dexter, and watch that point — see that 
he does not gain the avenue. Keep him from crossing. Put 
in on the right, Beachamj and you, Mason, go in on the left. 
Spare him not ! Slay him like a dog ! No quarter to the 
spy !” 

These were his rapid orders to his men as they rushed into 
the close but narrow thicket which was called the bay. 

“ But five minutes ! give me that,” muttered Mellichampe 
to himself, “ and I ask for no more. But where can Wither- 
spoon be ?” 

The next moment he heard the whistle of his friend in a 
denser part of the bay, and he hurried with a new joy toward 
him. 

“ There are but three or four; and if we can but join first, 
we may give them work,” cried the youth, pressing forward. 
But Witherspoon was now already engaged. His voice kept 
pace in company with his sabre, the clashing of which Melli- 
champe h«tard while approaching him. The woodman had 


THE P1NE-KN>T. 


P21 


encountered one of tlie pursuers. I'lie affair, however, was 
soon over. The man had met a s&bre where he had looked 
only for a victim. 

“It’s one less of the niggers,” cried Witherspoon, aloud, as 
he struck his enemy down with a fatal blow. “ Hello ! Air- 
nest, boy, where is you V* 

But the youth could not answer. He himself was about to 
become busily engaged. Barsfield was before him, and be- 
tween him and Witherspoon. Mellichampe had but his pistol, 
and he determined, as he saw the copse disturbed in front, to 
conceal his weapon, as he hoped that Barsfield would precipi- 
tate himself forward, as if upon an unarmed enemy, when he 
might employ it suddenly and fatally. Indeed, he had no 
other chance for life. In part, his plan was successful. The 
tory leaped forward with a mad .fury as he beheld the youth. 
His sabre was waving above Mellichampe’s head, when the 
latter sank upon his knee and fired — unerringly, but not 
fatally. 

The ball penetrated the thigh of the tory, who sank down 
upon him. They grappled with each other upon the ground, 
struggling in a little area where the trees seemed to have been 
scooped out, as it were, expressly to afford them room for a 
struggle of this sort. The physical power of Barsfield was 
naturally greater than that of Mellichampe, and the recent 
illness of the youth still further increased the inequalities 
between them ; but Mellichampe had succeeded in grasping^ 
the neckcloth of his enemy, while the latter had a hold only 
upon one wrist and part of the dress of the former. They 
were yet struggling upon the ground without advantage to 
either, when one of Barsfield’s men came to his assistance. 

The moment was full of peril to the youth ; but his friend 
Witherspoon was no less prompt to succor and save, than tlie 
tory to destroy. He bounded through the intervening bushes 
in time to neutralize the efforts of the new-comer. A sabre- 
stroke from the woodman brought him to the ground, and dis- 
abled him from any movement toward the combatants ; but, 
raising a pistol, even after he had fallen, before Witherspoon 
could help Mellichampe or get out of his way, he shot him in 


422 


MELUCIIAMPK. 


the side. Before he could draw a secoiid, the woodman cut 
him down. He had hardly done bo, when a faintness came 
over the faithful fellow ; he leaned against a tree, then sank 
nervelessly to the ground. 

“It’s a tough shot, Airnest, and I can^t help you. Who’d 
ha’ thought it? Ah! it bites! But hold on, Airnest — hold 
on, boy ; the major will soon come to pull you out of the bear’s 
claws.” 

“ You are hurt, Jack.” 

“ Reckon I am — a bad hurt too, Airnest, if one may tell by 
the sort of feeling it has.” 

Without a word, Barsfield continued the struggle the more 
earnestly, as he now found himself becoming faint from the 
wound which Mellichampe had inflicted. The youth himself 
grew momently less and less able to resist his foe, and With- 
erspoon, \vho lay but a few feet apart, and saw the mutual 
efforts of the two, could lend no manner of assistance. 

The object of the tory was to keep Mellichampe quiet with 
one hand, while he shortened his sabre with the other. This, 
as yet, he had striven fruitlessly to do. The youth, who saw 
his aim, had addressed all his energies to the task of defeating 
it; and, when pushed away by Barsfield, had contrived, by 
the grasp which he still maintained upon the neckcloth of the 
latter, still to cling so closely to him as to prevent his attain- 
ment of the desired object. While the struggle thus remained 
doubtful, a new party was added to the scene in the person 
•of Scipio, who came stealing through the bushes. He had 
heard the clamor in that direction which had taken place at 
first, and the subsequent silence frightened him still more than 
all the noise of the previous struggle. He came to gain intel- 
ligence for his young mistress, whose apprehensions, though 
unuttered in language or even in tears, were only silent be- 
cause they were untterable. 

Witherspoon saw the negro first. 

‘•Ha, Scip — nigger — is that you? Come quick, nigger, 
and help your maussa.” 

“Dab him? wha’s de matter. Mass Wedderspoon — you 
hurt?” 


THE PINE-KNOT. 


423 


“Ask no questions, you black rascal, but run and help 
Airnest : don’t you see him tnere, fighting with the tory V' 

“ Who? Mass Airnest — fighting wid de tory — hey ?” 

The negro turned his eyes, and stood in amaze, to behold 
the sort of contest which Mellichampe and Barsfield carried 
on. The tory first addressed him : — 

“ Scipio, run to Lieutenant Clayton — ” 

“ Run to the devil !” cried Witherspoon ; “ knock him on 
the head, Scipio, and save your master j don’t let him talk.” 

“ Only say de wud. Mass Wedderspoon; say de wud, Mass 
Arnest ; you say I mus’ knock dis tory ?” 

“ Yes, to be sure,” cried Witherspoon, in a rage. 

“If you dare,” said Barsfield, “you’ll hang, you scoundrel. 
Beware what you do! — fly — go to Lieutenant Clayton — ” 

The negro interrupted him : — 

“ You ’tan’ fur me. Mass Wedderspoon — you tell me fur do 
em, I do ’em fur true.” 

“Do it — do it, d — nyou! don’t stand about it. He will 
kill Airnest if you don’t ; he’ll kill us all !” 

The negro seized a billet — a ragged knot of the heaviest 
pine-wood that lay at hand — and approached the two where 
they lay struggling. 

“I mos’ ’fraid — he dah buckrah — I dah nigger.” 

“ Strike him !” cried Witherspoon, writhing forward in an 
agony of excitement — “strike him, Scip; I’ll answer for you. 
boy.” 

“ Hole you head ^dder. Mass Arnest,” cried the negro ; “ I 
feard fur hit you.” 

“Will you dare, Scipio — will you? Strike not, Scipio; 
you shall have your freedom — gold — guineas,” was the sup- 
plicating cry of Barsfield. 

“ I no yerry you. Mass Barsfield : you’s a d — n tory, 1 
know. Dis dah my maussa; I hab fur min’ um.” 

While he spoke, he approached and planted one of his feet 
between the bodies of the two combatants. 

“ Turn you eyes. Mass Arnest.” 

The heavy pine-wood knot was lifted above the head of the 
tory. The eyes of Mellichampe were averted, while Barsfield 


4-24 


MKLLTCHAMPE. 


vainly strove to press forward as closely to the youth as pos- 
sible, and once or twice writhed about in such a manner, 
though the grasp of Mellichampe was still upon his collar, as 
entirely to defeat the aim of the negro. 

“ ’Tan’ ’till — I mus knock you. Mass Barsfield.” 

“ Scip — Scipio !” were the pleading tones of the tory, as he 
threw up his arms vainly. The blow descended and silenced 
him for ever. The billet was buried in his brains. The skull 
lay crushed and flattened, and but a single contraction of the 
limbs and convulsion of the frame attested the quick transition 
of life to death — so dreadful had been the stroke. Melli- 
champe had fainted. 

‘‘Hurra! hurra! Well done, Scip — well done! you’ve 
saved the boy. You’re a nigger among a thousand !” 

The tones of exultation and encouragement came faintly 
from the lips of the woodman, who bled inwardly. They 
fell upon unheeding senses ; for the stupefied Scipio at that 
moment heard them not. 


JACK WITHEKSPOON. 


m 


CHAPTER LI. 

JACK WITHERSPOON. 

The negro dropped the heavy pine-knot with the blow, and, 
for a moment stood gazing in stupor upon the horrid specta- 
cle, his own deed, before him. At length, starting away, he 
dashed out of the bushes, in the direction of the dwelling, 
crying aloud as he fled, in tones like those of a maniac, 
and in words which indicated the intoxicating effect of bis 
new-born experience upon him — 

“ Ho ! ho ! rkill um — I hit, um on he head. He’s a dirt — 
he’s a dirt — I hab foot on um — I mash be brains. Ho ! lio ! 
I kill buckrah. I’s nigger — I kill buckrah ! You tiiik for 
hang me — you mistake. Mass Wedderspoon saydewud- 
Mass Arnest no say ‘ no.’ I kill ’em. He dead !” 

He rushed into the apartment where the family Avere all as- 
sembled ill the highest degree of agitation. The storm of 
battlet which still raged around them Avith unmitigated fury, 
had terrified Mr. Berkeley and Rose Duncan to the last de- 
gree. They appealed to Scipio for information, but he gave 
them no heed. 

“ Whay’s young missis ? young missis I want. I hab for tell 
um someting.” , 

He refused all other answer, and made his Avay into the 
adjoining apartment. Janet was at the window — that near- 
est to the clamor — at which, through another dreadful fight, 
she had watched unhesitatingly before. She started to her 
feet as she beheld him. 

Ernest — speak to me, Scipio. What of Ernest? Where 
is he ? tell me he is safe.” 

“ He dead ! I kill um ?” 


m 


MKLLICHAMPE. 


She shrieked and fell. The event restored the negro to his 
senses. He picked her up, howling over her all the wh‘»le, 
and bore her to the adjoining apartment, where the care of 
Rose Duncan in a short time recovered her. 

“ Speak to me, Scipio,” she cried, rising, and addressing him 
with an energy which despair seemed to have given her, 
and which terrified all around — “Tell me all — what of 
Ernest? He is not hurt — he has escaped ? You have told 
me falsely — he lives !” 

“ I ^speck so, missis ; ’tis I’s a d — n fool fur tell you he 
been hurt. He no hurt. ’Tis Mass Barsfield I been knock on 
de head — ” 

“ Barsfield ! — you !” was the exclamation of all. 

“Yes — de d n nigger — enty he been hab Arnest ’pon 

de ground ? he want to ’tick him wid he sword. I take light- 
wood-knot, I hammer um on he head tell you sees noting but 
de blood and de brain, and de white of he eye. He dead — 
’tis Scip mash um.” 

“ You struck him, Scipio ?” said Mr. Berkeley. 

“Mass Wedderspoon tell me, maussa. Enty he been guiiu 
’tick Mass Arnest ? When I see dat, I “’tan look. Jack Wed- 
derspoojj cuss me, and say, why de h-11 you no knock um V 
Well, wha* 1 for do ? Eiity he tell me? I knock um fur true! 
I hit um on he head wid de pine-knot. De head mash flat like 
pancake. I no see um ’gen.” 

The maidens shuddered at the narration, but Janet spoke 
instantly. 

“ But Ernest, what of him; Scipio ? Was he hurt ? You 
have not said, is he safe ?” 

“ I sway, missis, I can’t tell. I ’speck he been hurt some- 
ting. I left um on de ground. He ain’t git up.” 

“ I will go,” she exclaimed. 

“ Think not of it, Janet, my child, till the noise is over.” 

But she had gone ; while the father yet spake, she had left 
the room and the house, Scipio closely attending her. The 
feebleness of age seemed no longer to oppress the aged man. 
He rushed after the daughter of his heart with much of the 
vigor of youth, and with all the fearlessness of a proper man 


JAc;K WITIIKRSPOON. 


427 


hood. In that moment lier worth was conspicuous, in his for 
getfulness of all fear and feebleness. He heeded not the cries 
and the clamor, the dreadful imprecations and the sharp ring- 
ing shot, which momently assailed his ears in his progress. 
The fight was still going on along the avenue and in the park, 
hut its fury was abating fast. Mr. Berkeley hurried forward, 
hut soon became confused. His daughter was not to he seen, 
nor Scipio, and he knew not in what direction to turn his 
footsteps. While he paused and doubted, he heard the rush 
of cavalry, like the sweeping force of a torrent coming down 
the hills at midnight. He could see, in the bright moonlight, 
the dark figures and their shining white blades. The clashrng 
of steel superseded the shot of the marksmen, and the horse- 
men now evidently swept the field in irresistible wrath, 'i’lie 
tories were flying in all directions, the partisans riding over 
them with unsparing hoofs, and smiting down with impet- 
uous steel. A group fled toward the house, and came di- 
rectly upon the spot where the old man’s feet seemed to he 
frozen. Timidly he shrank behind a tree, and, as the cavalry 
pursued, the tories broke, and dispersed ih individual flight. 
One of them, an officer, sank hack slowly, and with an air 
of resolution and defiance in his manner which soon pro- 
voked the attention of a partisan trooper. He pressed for- 
ward upon the Briton, who turned gallantly and made fight. 
The huge-limbed steed of the partisan was wheeled from 
side to side under the curb of* his rider, with an ease that 
almost seemed the result of an instinct of his own. Neither 
the steed nor his rider could be mistaken. 

“ Yield — surrender, sir — you prolong the fight uselessly 
Your men are dispersed,” were the words of Singleton. 

“ Never, to a rebel !” was the response of Clayton ; “ never!” 
and he struck at the partisan with an earnestness and skill 
as he replied, which showed him that he was not an enemy 
to be trifled with. The fierce mood of Singleton grew upper 
most as he witn^sed the obduracy of the Briton. His own 
blows were repeated with furious energy, and the retreat of 
Clayton was perforce, more rapid than before. Backing, and 
fighting all the wliile, bis feet became entangled in some ob- 


4:28 


MKLLICHAMPE. 


struction behind him, and he stumbled over it without being 
able to recover himself. He now lay at the mercy of his 
enemy. 

The courtesy of Singleton effected what his valor had not 
done. His horse was curbed in the instant which saw Clayton 
fall. The point of his sabre, which had been directed toward, 
was now turned from his bosom, and he bade him rise. The 
Briton bowed, and presented his sword. 

“ Oblige me by keeping it, sir,” was the reply of the partisan. 
“ Let me see you to the house in safety.” 

The only inmate of the house who received Lieutenant Clay- 
ton was Bose Duncan. 

“ Pm a prisoner, Miss Duncan,” said the lieutenant, and it 
did not pain him greatly to tell her so. 

” Indeed ; I’m so glad of it,” was the almost unconscious 
reply. 

Clayton looked grave as she said so, and Major Singleton 
withdrew, leaving him, however, not so dissatisfied with the 
general tenor of events as might have been expected. It was 
surprising how soon he forgot that he was a prisoner, and how 
readily Bose became his custodier. But this concerns us not. 

In the neighboring court the bugle of Marion called his men 
together. The battle was over. The victory was complete, 
and the only concern before the partisans was to ascertain 
the price which it had cost them. This could not be so 
readily determined. • 

“But what tidings of Mellichampe P’ demanded Marion. 
“ Have you heard nothing. Major Singleton ? This was your 
charge.” 

“Nothing, as yet, sir; I have dispersed my men in search. 
It is unaccountable, too, that we have heard nothing of With- 
erspoon, nor has Captain Barsfield been reported. The com- 
mand does not seem to have been with him. Lieutenant 
Clayton is my prisoner.” . 

While they yet spoke, the whistle of Witherspoon — a 
faintly-uttered note, but well known as that of the wood- 
man — came to them from the bay. To this point they in- 
stantly proceeded. But Janet Berkeley was there long before 


JACK WmiKRSl’OON. 


429 


tbein. Slie had outstripped even the speed of Scipio ; she 
had licnrd and been guided by the accents of her lover’s voice, 
as she entered the copse. 

“Jack, dear Jack — Witherspoon, my friend, my more than 
friend — my father — speak to me!” 

It was thus that the youth, bending over his prostrate com- 
panion, expressed his agony and apprehension at the condition 
in which he found him. Witherspoon bled inwardly, and 
could scarcely speak, as he was in momentary danger of suf- 
focation. The next moment the arms of Janet were thrown 
about her lover, whom she found in safety, and she burst into 
an agony of tears, wlaich at length relieved her. With her 
appearance, the strength and consciousness of the wounded 
woodman seemed to come back to him. He looked up with a 
smile, and said, feebly, as he beheld her: — 

“God bless you. Miss Janet, and make you happy. You 
see he’s safe; and there’s no danger now, for I rether reckon, 
from what I hear and from what I don’t hear, that the tories 
are done for.” 

** Oh, Mr. Witherspoon 1 what can I do for you? I hope 
you are not much hurt.” 

“Pretty bad, I tell you. I feel all over I can’t tell how; 
and when it comes to that, you see, it looks squally. I’m 
afeard I’ve no more business in the swamp.” 

“ Speak not thus. Jack ; but let us help you to the house. 
Here, Scipio, lend a hand.” 

But the woodman resisted them. 

“No! no!” he exclaimed, “ this is my house — the woods. 
I’ve lived in them, and I feel that it will be sweeter to die in 
them than in a dark little room, I like the green of the trees 
and the cool feel of the air. I can’t breathe in a little room 
as I can in the w-oods.” 

“But, dear Jack, you can be better attended there — we — ” 

“Don’t talk, Airnest. I won’t ax for much ’tendance now. 
I feel I’m going; my teeth stick when I set them down, and 
when I try to open them it’s hard wmrk. I’m in a bad way, I 
tell you, when I can't talk — talking Avas so nateral.” 

“ What can I bring you ?” 


430 


MELLICIIAMPK. 


“ Water !” lie replied, gaspingly. 

But, vvitli tlie effort to swallow, there came a rush of blood 
into his mouth, which almost suffocated him. 

“ It’s all over with me now, Airnest, boy. I’ve done the 
best for you — ” 

The youth squeezed his hand, but was too much moved to 
speak. 

“ I’ve worked mighty hard to git you out of the hobble, and 
I’m awful glad that the bullet didn’t come till you were safe 
out of the claws of that varmint. You’ve got a clear track 
noAv ; and oh ! Miss Janet, I’m so glad to see you together, 
lock and lock, as I may say, afore I die. It’s a God’s blessing 
that I’m let to see it.” 

He linked their hands as he spoke, and the tears flowed as 
if he had been a child. Nor were the two bending above him 
less moved. 

“When you’re man and wife, you mustn’t forgit Jack 
Witherspoon. Ah, Airnest, you can’t reckon how much he 
loved you.” 

“I know it — I feel it, Jack. Your present situation — this 
wound — ” 

“ I don’t mind the pain of it, Airnest, when I think that I 
saved you. You’re safe ; and ’tain’t no hard matter to die 
when one’s done all his business. Indeed, to say truth, it’s 
high time — Ah ! it’s like a wild-cat gnawing into the bones !” 

The dialogue, broken and interrupted frequently by the 
sorrow of the spectators and the agonizing pain of Wither- 
spoon, was at length interrupted by the entrance into the area 
of the partisan-general, with several of the officers. Marion 
spoke in a low tone to Scipio, who stood at the head of the 
dying man. The voice was recognised by him. 

“That’s the gineral — the old ‘fox,’” he muttered to him- 
self; and he strove to throw back his eyes sufficiently to see 
him. 

“ Stand out of the moonlight, nigger — I wants to see the 
gineral.” 

“ I am here. Thumbscrew,” said Marion, kneeling down 
besid^^l^ipi. “ How is it with you, my friend ?” 


JACK WrniKRSPOON. 


431 


•‘Bad enough, gineial. You’ll have to put me in the odd 
leaf of the orderly’s book. I’ve got my ceitificate.” 

“I hope not, Thumby. We must see what can be done 
for you. We can’t spare any of our men,” said Marion, 
encouragingly. The dying man smiled feebly as he spoke 
again: — 

“ I know you can’t, and that makes me more sorry. But 
you know me, gineral — wasn’t I a whig from the first?” 

“I believe it — I know it. You have “done your duty 
always.” 

“ Put that down in the orderly book — I was a whig Irom 
the first.” 

“I will,” said Marion.. 

“ And after it, put down agen — he was a whig to the last.” 

“I will.” 

“Put down — he never believed in the tories, and — ” (here 
he paused, chokingly, from a fit of coughing) “ and he always 
made them believe in him.” 

“You have done nobly in the good cause, John Wither- 
spoon,” said the general, while his eyes were filled with tears, 
“ and you may well believe that Francis Marion, who honors 
you, will protect your memory. Here is my hand.” 

The woodman pressed it to his lips. 

“ Airnest — ” 

The youth bent over him. The arms of the dying man 
were lifted ; they clasped him round with a fervent grasp, 
and brought his forehead down to his lips — 

“Airnest!” he exclaimed once more, and then his grasp 
was relaxed. He lay cold and lifeless ; the rude but noble 
spirit had gone from the humble but honorable dwelling, wliich 
it had informed and elevated. The grief of Ernest Melli- 
champe was speechless. And if the happiness of the }»air, 
united in the sweetest bonds by the hands of the dying man, 
in that hour of pain, was ever darkened with a sorrow, it was 
when they thought that he who had served them so faithfully 
had not been permitted to behold it. 


THE E N O 


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SOCIAL PROBLEMS. 

By HENRY GEORGE. 


No. 393, Lovell’s Library, 12ino, large type, paper cover, 20c. 


The great success already achieved on both sides of the 
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yet even better adapted for general reading, and serves the 
purpose both of an introduction and a supplement to that 
more scientific work. In “ Social Problems ” Air. George 
has aimed at presenting the great social questions of the 
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of the former work. He has produced a book which “ he 
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are now beginning to agitate the public mind. 

j. W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

Publishers, 14 & 16 Vesey Street, 

NEW YORK. 


LOVEL L’S LI BRARY. 

Containing the Cream of English Fiction, New and Old, with 
selections from American and Continental Writers. 


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Where an asterisk is appended the work is in press and 
will be shortly issued. 


CLASSIFIED CATALOGUE. 


By EDMOND ABOUT. 

118. A New Lease of Life and Saving a Daughter’s Dowry .. 

BY MAX ADLER. 

295. Random Shots ....20 | 3ii5. Elbow Room 2o 

By MRS. ALEXANDER. 

62. The Wooing O’t, Part 1 15 1 99. The Admiral’s Ward 20 

Do. Do. Part II 15 1209. The Executor 20 

By F. ANSTEY. 

30. Vice VersS,; or, a Lesson to Fathers 2o 


By R. M. BALLANTYNE. 

215. The Red Eric j 239. Erling the Bold 20 

226- The Fire Brigade ‘..0 1 241. Deep Down 20 

By SIR SAMUEL BAKER. 

206. Cast up by the Sea 20 1 233. Eight Year’s Wand, iu Ceylon. 20 

227. Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 | 

By H. DE BALZAC. I By W. BERGSOE. 

63. The Vendetta. 20 1 77 PiUor.e 15 

By BESANT and RICE. 

18. They Were Married 10 , 1 257. All in a Garden Fair r 20 

10.3. Let Nothing You Dismay . . 10 | 26k When the Shi j) Comes Home . 10 

By BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON. 

3. Tiie Happy Boy 10 | 4. Arne 10 

By WILLIAM BLACK. 


40. An Adventure in Tbule and 
Marriage of Moira Fergus. 10 


48. A Princess of Thule 20 

82. A Daughter of Heth . 20 

85. Shandoii Bells 20 

93. Macleod of Dare 20 

146. White Wingp 20 

136 Tolande 20 

142. Strange Adventures ot a 

Phaeton 20 

153. Sunrise, Part I 15 

Do Do II 15 


178. Madcap Violet 20 

182. That Beautiful Wretch 20 

184. Green Pastures and Picca- 
dilly 20 

180. Kilineny ...20 

1^. In Silk "Attire 20 

213. The Three Feathers 20 

216. Lady Silverdale’s Sweet- 
heart iO 

218. Mr. Plsistratns Brown, M P.IO 

225. Oliver Goldsmith 10. 

232. Monaren of Mincing Lane. .2o 


By LILLIE D. BLAKE. 1 

105. Woman’s Place To-day 20 j 

By Miss M. E 

88. The Golden Calf 20 j 

26G. Under the Red Flag 10 | 


By CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 

74. Jane Eyre xlo 

BRADDON. 


104. Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

214. Phantom Fortune 20 


By F. W. FABRAB, D.D. 

]9, Sookere After God 20 50. Early Days of Christianity, 

50. Early Days of Christianity, Part II 30 

Part 1 20 

By GEORGE ELIOT. 


56. Adam Bede, Part 1 15 

Adam Bede, Part II 15 

• 69. Amos Barton 10 

71. Silas Marner 10 

79. Romola, Part I 15 

Romola, Part II 15 

149. Janet’s Repentance 10 

151. Felix Holt ' 20 

174. Middlemarch, Part I 20 

Middlemarch, Part II 20 

By M. BETHAM EDWARDS, 

203. Disarmed 1 


195 Daniel Deronda, Part 1 20 

Daniel Deronda, Part II 20 

202 Theophrastus Such. 10 

205 The Spanish Gypsy, Jubal 
and other Poems . . .20 

207 The Mill on the Floss, Part I. . 15 
The Mill on the Floss, Part II. 15 

208 Brother Jacob and Mr. Gilfil’s 

Love Story 10 

By OCTAVE FEUILLET. 

41. A Marriage in High Life 30 


By B. L. FARJEON. 


243. Gautran, or the House of White Shadows 20 

By FRANCESCA, (With By R. E. FRANCILLON. 

Preface by JOHN BUSKIN.) 319. A Real Queen * 20 

177. The Story of Ida 10 


By EMILE GABORIAU. 


114. Monsieur Lecoq, Parti ...20 
“ “ Part II.. 20 

116. The Lerouge Case 20 

120. Other People’s Money 20 


129. In Peril of His Life. . . 

138. The Gilded Clique., ... 

1.55. Mystery of Orcivai 

161 Promise of Marriage 

258. File No. 113 


.20 

.20 


By HENRr GEORGE. 

52. Progress and Poverty. . . . 20 

By CHARL^JS GIBBON. 

57. The Golden Shaft 20 - 

By Mrs. GORE. 

89. The Dean’s Daughter 20 

The BROTHERS GRIMM. 

221. Household Stories and Fairy Tales, Illustrated . . . 

By LUDOVIC HALEVY. 

15. L Abbe Constantin 

By THOMAS HARDY. 

43. Two on a Tower. .20 | 157. Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid.lO 


By ERNST HAECKEL. 

97. India and Ceylon 20 

By OI.IVER GOLDSMITH. 

5i. 'V icar of Wakefield 10 

By JAMES GRANT. 

49. The Secret Despatch 20 


20 


20 


By MARION HARLAND. 1 By J. B. HARWOOD. 
107.Hou8ekeepiug&Homemakiug.l5 | 269. One False, Both Fair 20 


By JOSEPH HATTON. 

7. Clytie ..20 | 137. Cruel Loudon 30 

By LEONARD HENLEY. j By PAXTON HOOD. 

26. Life of Washington 20 I 73. Life of Cromwell 15 

By HORRY and WEEMS. | By ROBERT HOUDIN. 

36. Life of Marion 20 1 14. The Tricks of the Greeks Unveiled. 20 

By THOMAS HUGHES. 

61. Tom Brown’s School Days. 20 1 186. Tom Brown at Oxford, Pt. 1.15 

I “ *• Pt. 11.15 

By STANLEY HUNTLEY. ] By HENRY C. LUKENS. 

109. The Spoopendyke Papers. . 20 | 131. Jets and Flashes 2r 


^4r. 

198 

1J9. 

t9a 

2^4. 


23G. 


249. 

2'3. 

272 . 


17 . 

r.i. 


ijj. 


67. 


39. 


254. 

322, 

324. 


By WASHINGTON IBVING. 


Tlie Sketch Book 20 

Tales of a Traveler 20 

Life and Voyages of Colum- 
bus, Pt. 1 20 

Life and Voyages of Colum- 
bus. Pt. 11 20 I 

Abbotsford and Newstead i 

Abbey 10 I 

Kuiekerbocker History of ! 

New York 20 

The Crayon Papers 15 | 

Tne Alhambra 15 

Conquest of Granada 20 1 


270. Conquest of Spain 10 

281. Brace bridge Hall* 20 

2!K). Saliubgundi * 20 

299. Astona * 20 

301. Spanish Voyages 20 

305. A Tour on the Prairies * 10 

30b. Life of Mahomet, Parti. *...15 
Life of Mahomet, Part II *. 15 

310. Oliver Goldsmith * 20 

311. Captain Bonneville * 20 

314. Moorish Chronicles * 10 

32 1 . W olf ert’sRoost&Misce 1 lau ies * 1 C 


By HARHIET JAY. i By SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
The Dark Colleen 20 1 44, Russelas 10 


By EDWARD KELLOGG. 

Labor and Capital 20 

By GRACE KENNEDY. 

Dunallan, Part 1 15 | lOG. Dunallan, Part II 15 

By JOHN P. KENNEDY. 

Horse Shoe Robinson, Pt. 1..15 [ G7. Horse Shoe Robinson, Pt. 1 1.. 15 


By CHAS. KINGSLEY. 


The Hermits 

20 

1 G4. Hypatia, Parti 

...15 



1 “ Part II 

...15 

By W. 

H. G. 

KINGSTON. 


Peter, the Whaler 

20 

' 335. The Young Foresters * 

...20 

Mark Seaworth 

20 

j 342. Salt Water * 

...20 

Round the World 

20 

, 355. The Midshipman ** 

,...20 


By Miss MARGARET LEE. j By HENRY W. LUCYc 

25. Divorce 20 90. Gideon Fleyce 20 

By CHARLES LEVER. By H. W. LONGFELLOW. 


327. Harry Lorrenuer* .20 i Hypcrion 20 

By E. LYNN LINTON. 

275. lone Stewart 20 

By LORD LYTTON. 


H. Tlie Coming Race 10 

12. Leila; or, the Siege of GranadalO 

31. Ernest Maltravers 20 

32. The Haunted House, and 

Calderon the Courtier 10 

45, Alice; a sequel to Ernest 

Maltravers 20 

55. A Strange Story 20 

.59. L ist Days of Pompeii 20 

81-. Zanoui 20 

81. Night and Morning, Part I.. 15 

Night and Morning, Part 11.15 

117. Paul Clifford 20 

121. Lady of Lyons 10 

128. Money 10 

152, RichelicB 10 

IGO. Rienzi, Part I 15 

Rienzi, Part II 15 

176. Pelham 20 

204. Eugene Aram ... 20 


222. The Disowned 20 

240 Kenelm Chillingly 20 

^5. What Will He Do With It ? 1 . 20 

What Will He Do With It ? II.2o 

247. Devereux 20 

250. The Caxtons, Part 1 15 

The Caxtons, Part II .1.5 

25.3. Lucretia 20 

255. Last of the Barons, Pt I .^5 

Last of the Barons. PtII 15 

259. The Parisians, Part I a5 

The Parisians, Part II 15 

271. My Novel, Part 1 20 

My Novel Part II 20 

My Novel, Part III 20 

276, Harold, Part 1 15 

Harold. Part II 15 

289. Godolphin 20 

294. Pilgrims of the Rhine * I 5 

317." Pausanias * I 5 


By JUSTIN II. McCarthy. 

1 15. An Ontiinc of Irish History.. 10 
278. Maid of Athens 20 


By W. S. MAY'C, 

70. The Berber. . . . 20 


By A. MATHEY. 

, . . .' 20 1 60. The Two Duchesses 20 


46. Duke of Kandos 

By L. T. MEADE. By ALAN MUIR. 

328. How It All Came Round 20 | 312. Golden Girls 


By MAX MULLER. 
130. India ; What can i t teach us ?.20 
By MissMULOCK. 

33. John Halifax 20 

By D. CHR. MURRAY. 
197. By the Gate of the Sea. . . . . .15 


.20 

By CAPTAIN MARRY’ AT. 

212. The Privateersman 20 

By EDWARD H. MOTT. 

139. Pike County Folks 20 

By Rev. R. H. NEWTON. 
83. Right and Wrong Uses of the 

Bible 20 


By W. E. NORRIS. 

108. No New Thing 20 

By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 

124. The Ladies Lindores 20 

179. The Little Pilgrim 10 

By 

112. Wanda, Parti 15 


By LAU. OLIPHANT. 
196. Altiora Peto -.20 


187, 

330. 


Parc II 15 

By JAMES PAYN. 

Thicker than Water 20 

The Canon’s Ward* 20 


I 175. Sir Tom 20 

I 326. The Wizard’s Son* 20 

OUIDA. 

I 127. Under Two Flags, Part I. . .20 


Part II... 20 
By LOUISA PARR. 

42. Robin 20 


18f9. Scottish Chiefs, Part 1 20 | 


By CHARLES READE. 

28. Single Heart, Double Face.. 10 

By A. M. F. ROBINSON. 

134. Arden 15 

By Mrs. ROWSON. 

159. Charlotte Temple 10 

By GEORGE SAND. 

135. The Tower of Percemont. .20 

By MICHAEL SCOTT. 

171. Tom Cringle’s Log 20 

By EUGENE SCRIBE. 
22.Fleurette 20 

By S. SHELLEY. 

191. The Nautz Family 20 

By S. M. 

248. Life of Webster, Part I . ...15 


By JANE PORTER. 

189. Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

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16. Freckles 20 

By SIR H. ROBERTS. 

101. Harry Holbrooke • 20 

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27. Social Etiquette 15 

By SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

145. Ivanhoe, Part 1 15 

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I 125. Haunted Hearts 10 

SMUCKER. 

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110. False Hopes ; Socialistic Fallacies Examined 10 

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173. Underground Russia: Revolutionary Profiles and Sketches 30 


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230. Belinda 20 

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113. More Words about the Bible JO 


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200. The Pilgrim’s Progress 20 


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“ ■ Part II 15 

Bv WM. CARLETON. 
190. Willy Keilly 20 

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241. Samuel Brohl & Co 20 


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“ Part II ,15 

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167. Anti -Slavery Days 20 


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183. Her Mother’s Sin 

277. Dora Thorne 

287. Beyond Pardon.* 


20 

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291. Famous Funny Fellows 20 

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98. The Gypsy (j,ueen. .aO 


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* 8. The Moonstone, P.art 1 10 I 24. The New Magdalen 20 

9 ^ “ “ Part II 10 I 87. Heart and Science 20 


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20 


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260. Mrs. Darling’s War Letters. 20 


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38. A Tale of Two Cities 20 

75. Child’s History of England. .20 

91. Pickwick Pairers, Parti 20 

Pickwick Papers, Part II ...20 
140. The Cricket on the Hearth. .10 
144. Old Cnriosity Shop, Part I.. 15 
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150. Baniaby Rudge, Parti 15 

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158. David Copperfield, Part I... 20 
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170. Hard Times. 20 

192. Great Expectations 20 

201. Martin Chuzzlewit, Part I. 20 
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210. American Notes 15 

219. Dombey and Son, Part I... 20 
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223. Little Dorrit, Part 1 20 

Little Dorrit, Part II 20 


228. Our Mutual Friend, Part I.. 20 
Our Mutual Friend, Part 11.20 
231. Nicholas .Nickieby, Part 1.20 
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234. Pictures from Italy 15 

237. The Boy at Mugby lO 

244. Ble.k House, Part 1 20 

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246. Sketches of Youug Couples.! J 
261. Master Humphrey’s Clock .".0 


267. The Haunted House, etc... 10 

270. The Mudfog Papers, etc 10 

2 <'3. Sketches by,Boz 20 

274. A Christmal Carol, etc 15 

282. Uncommercial Traveler 20 

288. Somebody’s Luggage, etc. 10 
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297. Mystery of Edwin Drood *.20 

298. Reprinted Pieces * 20 

302. No Thoroughfare 10 


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92. Airy, Fairy Lilian 20 

126. Loys, Lore Beresford 20 

132. Moonshine and Marguerites. 10 

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168. Beauty’s Daughters 20 

284. Rossmoyne 20 

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141. Henry Esmond 20 

148. Denis Duval 10 

148. Catherine 10 

15d. Lovel, the Widower 10 

164. Barry Lyndon 20 

l?2. Vanity Fair 30 

193. History of Pendennis Pt. 1 20 

History of PSndennis, Pt. II 20 

211. The Newcomes, Part I 20 

The Newcomes, Part II 20 

220. Book of Snobs 10 

219. Paris Sketches 20 

235. Adventures of Philip, Pt. 1 15 

Adventures of Philip, Pt. II 15 

238. The Virginians, Parti 20 

The Virginians, Part II 20 

252. Critical lieviews, and Second 

Funeral of Napoleon 10 

256. Eastern Sketches 10 

26'. Fatal Boots, &c 10 

261. The Four Georges 10 

280. Fitzboodle Papers, etc 10 

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285. A Legend of the Rhine, etc 10 

286. Cox’s Diary, etc 10 

292. Irish Sketches 2C 

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300. Novels by Eminent Hands 10 

303. Character Sketches, etc 10 

304. Christmas Books 20 

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309. Sketches and Travels in Lon- 
don .10 

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316. Great Hoggarty Diamond 10 

320. The Rose and the Ring ...10 

• 


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94. Tempest Tossed, Part II 20 


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133. Mr. Scarborough’s Family, Pt. 1 . 15 


“ “ “ “ 11.15 

25L Autobiography of Anthony 
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35. The Cryptogram 10 

154. Tour of the World in SO Days ...20 
166. 20,000 Leagues , Under the Sea 20 
185. The Mysterious Island, Pt. I. ... 15 


The Mysterious Island, Pt. II.. .15 
The Mysterious Island, Pt. Ill .15 

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80. Science in Short Chapters 20 

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194. Widow Bedott Papers 20 

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47. Baron Munchausen 10 

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169. Beyond the Sunrise 20 

181. Whist, or Bumblep’uppy ? 10 

265. Plutarch’s Lives, Part 1 20 

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323. Life of Paul Jones * 20 


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LABOR and CAPITAL, 

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“ Labor and Capital ” ia a remarkable book. It shows how and why 
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A Characteristic Letter From 

WENDELL PHILLIPS, 

Boston, Mat 25th, 188;L 

Mr. John W. Lovell, 

Dear Sir I am (am I ?) Indebted to you for a copy of your reprint of 
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By STEPNIAK, formerly Editor of “ Zemlia i Volia” (Land and 
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By JUSTIN H. McCARTHY. 1 vol. 12mo., Lovell’s Library 
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AutJwr of Progress and Poverty '' Social Problems^' etc* 


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Well printed from new plates on good paper. Com- 
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SCIENCE IN SHORT CHAPTERS 

By V/. MATTIEU WILLIAMS, F.R.A.S. F.C.S. 

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Xo, 8o OF LIBRARY, 

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LIFE OF OLBVER CROMWELL, 

His Life, Times, Battlefields, and Contemporaries, by 

PAXTON HOOD, 

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1 Seixxs 3^0. 73 o± H.O'V^EIL.IL.’S 

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